Scenes from the Life of The Trousseaus
by Section-Eight
Summary: Scenes from the Life of Madame and Monsieur Trousseau: A TragiComedy in 17 parts. There are at eight apartments in the complex where Mireille lives. This is the story of the people in them. Edited since I couldn't stand the thought of all those typos.
1. Every Ending

**Scenes from the Life of Madam and Monsieur Trousseau**

A Work of Noir Fanfiction

By Kevin "Section Eight" Ma

This is a work of fiction, utilizing characters from the animated series _Noir_ without its creator's permission. The author hopes he will not get sued. Much.

There are at eight apartments in the complex where Mireille lives. This is the story of the people in them.

Special thanks to

- the persons of the oyasumi.nu webboard for asking the question "Who else lives in Mireille's apartment complex?"

- the posters known as FacelessMinion and Swordskill, for editorial assistance

- the Stash Tea website for obscure tea knowledge

- the Maidens of Noir, Noir Screencaps, and Project Noir websites, for invaluable research resources

- all the Noir cast and crew

- Iron Sheik, for giving me an excuse to watch the show again

- Mom, for makeup tips.

**Chapter 1: Every Ending…**

As a soft October rain caressed the window of the apartment, Madame Trousseau shifted slightly in amongst her ever-growing nest of scarves, sweaters, and tea cosies, knitting. Time-worn fingers made slow, steady strokes along a never-ending river of woollen yarn spread across her cardigan, each click and clack of the needles in perfect time with the old parlour clock on the mantelpiece. Beside her, a candle whispered in a draft.

Monsieur Trousseau was stretched out on the chaise longue in front of the hearth, his hat upon his face, stone-still in his slumber. A thin blanket of dust had settled over him, adding further insulation to his threadbare, yet well-loved, quilt.

Madame Trousseau looked up from her knitting at the clock. Noting the time, she leaned over the side of her overstuffed chair (with its tartan slipcover, made of wool she'd scavenged from Peter's old sweaters), and picked up her cane. Stretching it across the living room, she gave one of Monsieur Trousseau's slippers a gentle prod. He snorted, twitched his well-waxed moustache, and then resumed his inaudible slumber. Satisfied he was still alive, she set down the cane and took up the wool.

"Now, where was I?" she wondered.

Raised voices echoed up from the streets below. As Madame Trousseau started a particularly complex double-underhook-and-stitch pattern, she heard a man say --

"And stay out, you bums!"

— Followed by a slammed door. As she mulled over where she left the tangerine yarn for the tassels, she tracked the man's progress as he stomped up the stairs, across the loose floorboard ("He still hasn't fixed that," she noted) around the corner, and up to the door.

"And _that_," said Peter Trousseau, as he flung it open, "is that!" The door crashed against the stop like a shot.

Monsieur Trousseau went from semi-recumbent to airborne in a heartbeat. "We're under attack! Argh!" In his scramble for his old pistol (long since pawned away), his feet had become tangled in his quilt, sending him crashing into three month's of Madame Trousseau's knitting, carefully positioned for just such an eventuality. "Mrffph?" he asked.

"It's just Peter," sighed his wife. "You shouldn't frighten him so, Peter."

"He should be in a home," said Peter, as he hung his coat over the radiator. "Like you."

"You wouldn't last five minutes without me, swine!" barked Monsieur Trousseau. "I rebuilt this house with my very own hands while you were nothing but a twinkle in your mother's eye, and…" Madame Trousseau returned to her knitting as the old drama played out again.

Several minutes later, after the Monsieur had hobbled off to the kitchen, she asked her son, "You saw them off then?"

"Yes, Mama," he said. "And turn on the lights, you're ruining your eyes!"

"The candle is light enough, Peter," she said, as her son flicked the switch. "And it saves on electricity."

"Mama," he replied, exasperated, "I think we can afford one light bulb."

"Back in the old days —"

"Augh, not the 'old days' again…"

"— we knew the importance of conservation. Your father was out of work —"

"Ma…"

"— I was pregnant with Marien, the banks had just folded —"

"_Ma…_"

"— and the Socialists —"

"MA!" Peter checked himself upon hearing a clatter from the kitchen. "I get it, okay, Mama?" he said, in a softer voice.

"That's a good son," she said, as he turned off the lamp. Peter flopped down in an easy chair and clicked on the television. "Don't watch TV in the dark, you'll ruin your eyes," said Madame Trousseau, as her son was already reaching for the light switch. Madame Trousseau clicked her needles in time with the clock, which chimed six times. "I'm still so sad to see them go," she sighed.

"Mama, they missed three months of rent, fought all the time, and then kicked down our door at four in the morning demanding we fix the hot water heater! Immediately!"

"But he was such a nice young man. The daughter showed far too much chest, but —"

"Whatever the case," said Peter, "those Saoh-Thomés are gone for good."

"And good riddance!" said Monsieur Trousseau, as he brought in the tea. "Damned foreigners flooding the countryside…"

"They're good for the economy, Toulouse," said Madame Trousseau, "the news-man said so."

"Bah!" He raised his cup and lost himself in the aroma.

"Anyway," said Peter, reclining, "I'll have to find a new tenant for the third floor. Probably put out an ad after I clean the place up. Can you look at the radiator tomorrow, Papa? I've got to repaint the walls."

Monsieur Trousseau smiled. "Where would you be without me, son?" he said.

"Closer to the TV," murmured his son.

"What!? You swine! Why, I —"

Madame Trousseau took up a new skein of wool.


	2. Introductions

**Chapter 2: Introductions**

Her coat of shawls wrapped tightly against the wind, Madame Trousseau waddled down Rue du Champlain. She bobbed her head to the music as she hummed a cheery melody of five different half-remembered songs, frowning slightly as her grocery-laden trolley insisted on veering into every wall, person, and parked car along the way. "I must remember to fix that left wheel," she thought, as she had for the last month.

Just as she turned the corner, the wheel, possibly fed up with being ignored, snapped. €24.13 of fresh potatoes and onions spilled out onto the street. She muttered under her breath and knelt to pick them up. A scooter squeaked to a stop.

"Need some help?" asked a pair of boots.

Madame Trousseau looked up from the ankle-length leather boots at a young, blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman showing an indecent amount of leg. She smiled, and gathered the fallen goods.

"Thank you, my dear," said Madame, after she managed to stand up again. "My knees always swell so in this weather."

"No problem," said the woman. "Do you need any help getting this home?" she asked, holding the groceries. "I've some room in my basket."

"No thank you, my dear," she replied, "I live just here, it's no trouble at all. Could you get that wheel for me?"

"Really? I just moved in myself. Here you go."

"Oh! You must be the new tenant, Miss…eh…"

"Bouquet," said the woman, as she moved her scooter onto the walk. "Mireille Bouquet."

"Oh yes, that was the name! Peter was telling me all about you last night."

"_I couldn't believe it," he said. "Paid the first six month's rent up front. In _cash."

"Nothing wrong with cash," said Monsieur. "Never trust cheque nor credit; never know when the banks will bust again."

"That's the landlord, Peter Trousseau, right?" She helped Madame lift the trolley through the back door.

"Yes. He's my son," smiled Madame. "My sweet little boy."

"Uh, yes…quite."

"The rent is €850.00 a month," he said in the interview. "But for a tenant of your…qualifications," he said, brazenly looking her over, " maybe we could work something out, eh?" He leaned over the desk, grinned, and gave her a wink.

_She smiled back, and raised her right foot._

"The poor boy stubbed his toe on something," said Madame, as they walked through the lobby. "Limping all night. And he was so looking forward to going out to the club again. Hello, Monsieur Verloc."

"Mm," grunted an overcoat.

"Did you get your paper this morning? I had a talk with the boy yesterday about it."

"Mm," said the coat, as he drew a thick broadsheet from beneath his arm.

"Ah, good, I knew it was just a mistake, he's so forgetful. Is your leg better?" The coat shrugged. "I'm sure you'll be back at work inside a week," said Madame, smiling. "Enjoy your walk!" The coat hobbled out the door. "That was Monsieur Verloc," she said, climbing the stairs. "He works for the police. Doesn't say much."

"I think we've met," said Mireille, carefully.

"Really? So soon? But you just moved in!"

"Oh," she said, smiling, "not formally. We just…passed in the street."

"_Halt! Police!" Inspector Verloc spun into the alley. Moonlit shadows obscured every detail. He cursed himself for dropping his flashlight. He brandished his gun. "Throw down your weapon and come out with your hands over your head, now!" _

_A crack. His leg flew out from under him, shot with pain. He cursed, struggled up from the mud, and looked up. _

_A long-haired silhouette leapt over a low fence, and was gone. _

"I'll have to introduce you two sometime," said Madame, as Mireille watched the coat limp past the window. "Everyone here is very, very friendly when you get to know them. Let's see…there's Messieurs Blanche, Violet and Brun (they just moved in a few months back), Monsieur Golgo, but I hear he's leaving soon, and, now who am I forgetting —"

"Morning, Madame," said an impeccably-dressed businessman.

"Monsieur Duceppe!" cried Madame. "You're back!"

"Just off the plane," he replied, setting his suitcase at the top of the stairs, "and happy to be back in your distinguished company, Madame Trousseau."

"Ooh, Monsieur," she said. "You are such a gentleman. And a scoundrel!" she tittered, as he bent to kiss her hand. "Whatever would your wife think if she saw you now?"

"I know she'd make an exception for such a beautiful woman as you, Madame," cooed Duceppe.

"We've discussed that, Maurice," said a voice from the lobby.

"Ah. Cherise. What took you?"

"But he's right," said a remarkably short and, again, impeccably dressed businesswoman. "I do make an exception for you, Madame. As for what took me?" She held up a suitcase in either arm, letting the rucksacks under them flop to the floor, and raised an eyebrow.

"Terribly sorry, my dear," Maurice deadpanned, "must have slipped my mind."

"And there's a yellow scooter double-parked in the doorway," she added, as Maurice hoisted a heavy case onto his shoulders, with visible reluctance.

"Ah, that's mine," said Mireille. "I stopped to help Madame Trousseau with this," she explained, as she proffered the bag.

The couple gawked at her, surprised. There was a short, uncomfortable silence.

"Where are my manners?" said Madame, breaking it. "Madame and Monsieur Duceppe, this is the new tenant, Miss Bouquet."

"Hello," they said, recovering their composure.

"Miss Bouquet, the Duceppes," continued Madame. "They just got back from a conference in, ah…where was it again?"

"Algeria," said Maurice.

"That was the place," smiled Madame. "They work for the government, you know. Sanitation, I believe."

"Waste management, hmm?" said Mireille, examining the couple. "Clever."

"Have you ever travelled to Algeria, Miss Bouquet?" asked Cherise.

"Just once," she replied. "Briefly. On business."

"You should go back some time," said Maurice. "You meet so many interesting people there," he added, shooting a glance at her.

"Indeed," she said, shooting back.

"_Seventy cases of Semtex, complete with detonators," said The Rat, as he tapped the crates with the carved cane that he was known by. "Enough to raze a city block, or raise a nation, whichever you prefer," he added. "Vacuum-sealed, as you requested, and with all the necessary documentation to get across the Spanish borders untouched. The payment?" _

_Cherise gave a signal. Maurice stepped forward, set the case on the dirty concrete floor, and kicked it forward. _

"_Check it," said The Rat. One of several men with automatics opened the case and examined its contents in the light of the nearby lantern, holding each bill up to the light and rubbing them between his fingers. After several minutes, he paused, glanced at The Rat, and nodded. _

"_As expected." He circled around behind the lantern, its orange light darkening every line on his sun aged face. "And now, hands up, please."_

"_What?" Cherise growled. _

"_Surrender. Now." Safeties flicked, bolts clicked, and Cherise was suddenly staring down the sights of eleven Kalashnikov rifles. A derringer flashed into Maurice's hand. An arm like steel lashed out, grabbed the hand, and twisted. Bones snapped. Maurice croaked. Another hand snatched the gun, as a rifle butt brought him to the ground. _

"_We had an arrangement," hissed Cherise, as a guard removed two throwing knives from her person. _

"_Which did _not_ include this!" shouted The Rat. He snatched up a bill exactly like all the others. "Electronic ignition strip interwoven into each bill, and fibres soaked in urea — an old trick. I'm insulted that whomever sent you thought it would work." He dashed the case to the ground, the bills scattering about the yard. _

"_Honestly, using a bomb when a bullet would do? Pure arrogance," he spat. "You could have shot, stabbed, or strangled me the second you walked into this prison yard and saw the goods. But you didn't. You had to try and be better than that. More 'civilized.' You used subtlety and technology to do the job, all in an attempt to distance yourself from the basic brutality of your actions. You and I, we're no different. We're thieves, liars, and murderers. It's in our blood. Except that I can _accept_ that fact, while you two dare not. No, you don't dare." He leaned over the table, his face made terrible by the electric lamp. "You cannot, must not accept that in that moment before you pull the trigger, that you will see, there lined up so expertly in your sights…" He drew a huge pistol and levelled it at Cherise. "Your own face." _

_A trigger moved._

_Cherise gasped._

_The lamp exploded. A magnum thundered, and storms of wild gunfire split the darkness. Bullets whipped by her face. Instinctively, she ducked, grabbed, pulled, twisted, snapped, and then drove her knee down. A skull split, not hers. She grabbed the guard's rifle, and, using his still-warm hand, snapped off three shots. To her right, she heard four more. Bodies tumbled to the pavement. _

_And then…silence. Save for her own ragged breaths, and those of her partner. She gave him a quick nod as her night vision returned, and surveyed the carnage. _

_The Rat was very dead. Shot clean through the head. _

_From behind._

_Cherise and Maurice snapped their rifles towards the far wall of the prison. _

_A figure, balanced on the wall, looked back. A face flashed in the moonlight, then dropped into the darkness. _

"If you'll excuse us," said Madame, breaking their reverie, "we'd best get these things inside. But after that, I want to hear all about your trip."

"Of course," said Cherise. "We've a souvenir for you."

"Oh, you shouldn't have," said Madame. "Goodbye for now!" She turned her beatific smile to her new neighbour as they climbed up to the third floor. "What did I tell you? So very kind. And so worldly. Ah the stories they've told me and Toulouse…"

"I can only imagine," said Mireille, glancing back at them.

"I've always wanted to see the world," she continued, misty-eyed, "but money was always so tight, and Toulouse always had something to do around the apartment. Now that Peter's here, we have the time, of course, but Toulouse feels so tired nowadays. Spends half the day sleeping and the other half snoozing! And I certainly don't walk as fast as I used to, anymore. And the aeroplanes are so dangerous. All that security, all that standing in line…how could anyone stand it? A cruise could be interesting…but everyone who goes on one comes back with that flu; I think it's from chickens or something. Or they hit an iceberg. I would fancy a drive out in the country, but everyone goes so very fast nowadays, it's not safe at all. And I'd miss talking to all my friends at the local market, too. But it would be wonderful to travel, someday before I die. Maybe to Africa, or China, or America, no, not America, all those gangs and guns and —"

"This door, then?" asked Mireille.

"Eh? Oh! Yes. Yes it is. Thank you for your help, dear," she said, opening it. "Oh, but you will come in for tea, won't you?"

"Maybe later, Madame; I better lock up my scooter. The shelter's out back, yes?"

"Oh, don't use that," said Madame, accepting the bag of groceries. "Monsieur Verloc says we should beware of bicycle thieves. Bring it in instead; it's drier and very much safer."

"Really? I'll do that then. See you later, Madame Trousseau," said Mireille, as she turned to go. "It's been…an experience…meeting you."

"See you later, Miss Bouquet."

"See you."


	3. Enlightenment

**Chapter 3: Enlightenment**

"Well, would you look at this?" Monsieur Trousseau held the evening paper at arm's length. "'NSB Official Murdered. Police Suspect Foul Play.' Second one this month. What is this world coming to?"

"You're so grim, Toulouse," said Madame, setting down her romance novel. "You're always reading those stories."

"I can't help it; it's what's in the paper."

"That's why I don't read it anymore," said Madame, adjusting her reading glasses. "It's nothing but scandal and war and death, page after page of the stuff."

"Way of the world, Cosette."

"Nonsense. If the world were like that, no one would want to live in it. The world is only dark if you stare at the shadows," she preached.

"Speaking of shadows, I'm lighting another candle." He did so. "This story just shows how right I was. I'll have to show it to Peter when he gets back."

"Oh, don't start that again, Toulouse."

"This could have been him if he'd stayed with the department," he said, pointing to the article. "I was right to talk him out of it then, and I'm even more right now."

"He loved it there, Toulouse," said Madame. "He wanted to serve his country."

"He can do that right here. Don't have to be some secret agent to be a hero. Just living in peace is impressive enough. There's no honour in being dead."

"He was a clerk."

"So were these two," said Monsieur, slapping the paper again.

"I still think you shouldn't have pressured him so. We were getting on just fine here without his help."

"Do _you_ want him to leave, then?"

"Well, no, but —"

"Like Marien?"

"Now, that's not fair, Toulouse, and you know it!"

"At least now _one_ of our children comes home more than once every three years." He grumbled, and checked the old clock. "He's late."

"He's probably staying late at the club again." A floorboard creaked in the hall. "Or not," said Madame, her face lit up. She rolled herself out of the easy chair and shuffled over to the door. "You're back early," she began, as she opened it.

"Madame Trousseau?"

"Oh! Miss Bouquet!"

"Uh, yes," said Mireille, paused halfway through her apartment door. "You were expecting me?"

"Oh, no, no, no," tittered Madame. "I thought you were my son, Peter, come back from his meeting."

"'Meeting'?"

"Oh, it's a silly old drinking club he's in," explained Madame. "_Les Chevaliers_, I think it's called. It's not him," she shouted over her shoulder. "It's just Miss Bouquet."

"'Course it's not him," came Monsieur Trousseau's voice. "He'd stay there all night if he could. And you don't have to shout, woman," he added.

"He goes down there every week with Mister Verloc and most of the bottom two floors," she said, ignoring him. "They're all old friends from his academy days."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes, the closest of friends. They were all so very disappointed when he left for the NSB, but they still had their club, and now they're even all under the same roof."

"Oddly convenient," noted Mireille.

"Have you had a chance to meet any of them yet?" asked Madame. "I haven't seen you in weeks."

"I had some business to take care of in the country…" she replied.

"'War Criminal Found Dead in Home,'" read Monsieur. "Good riddance."

"…But I did have tea with the Duceppes yesterday."

"Such a fascinating couple, aren't they?"

"Yup."

"_So," she began, sitting on the edge of the pool table, "what are you two doing here?" _

"_Cheap rent," said Maurice, from his seat at the nearby table. _

"_Safe neighbourhood," added Cherise, leaning against one of the bay window-frames. _

"_And 'easy access to rooftops'?" asked Mireille, taking a sip of coffee._

_Maurice smirked. "Yes, I told Monsieur Trousseau to put that line in the advertisement. It's more of a selling point than you might think. You know, you really need some more chairs around this place," he added, looking around the nearly bare apartment._

"_They're on order," said Mireille. "But you haven't answered my question." She set down her mug down next to the 8-ball ("Need some coasters, too," she thought). "What are a DGSE(1) operative and an ex-Mossad(2) agent doing in the middle of Paris?"_

_Maurice raised an eyebrow. "Everyone has to live somewhere," he said. _

_Mireille gave him a look. He sighed, and set down his mug._

"_And you guessed…how?" he asked._

"_Your watch, for one," said Mireille. "Standard issue to all French intelligence operatives. A Class IV, I believe?"_

"_The one with the garrotte, yes," he replied, slipping it under his cuff. _

"_He broke the one with the laser," said Cherise. "I told him not to wear it in public, but would he listen?"_

"_You never know when it'll come in handy," he deadpanned._

"_That, plus our meeting in Algeria, gave me reason enough to look up your file," continued Mireille. "Quite impressive, by the way."_

"_I won't ask how you got a hold of it."_

"_And I won't tell."_

"_Of course."_

"_You were more difficult to figure out," said Mireille, turning to Cherise. "The Krav Maga(3) you used in Algeria suggested Israeli special forces, possibly Mossad, but The Rat and his wares were strictly European; Israel couldn't care less about him. You were working with Maurice; that meant you were either a freelancer or a defector."_

"_The latter," replied Maurice. "I seduced her in Budapest two years ago."_

"_Ha. You wish," said Cherise. "I had him at my mercy in ten minutes," she purred, "but the French pay well. And Gaza had lost its charm," she added._

"_It seems you live up to your reputation, Miss Bouquet," said Maurice, shooting a look at his partner. "From what I know of it, at least." _

"_What do you know, I wonder," said Mireille. _

"We have decent intelligence on your family and their involvement with the Corsican crime syndicate," replied Cherise, "but virtually nothing on you. You're an assassin, obviously, a highly efficient one as well. Despite your short time in the business, your name already commands fear and respect amongst those in the know. Beyond that, we know nothing. Interpol didn't even have a picture."

_Mireille nodded, unsurprised. "So, now that introductions are over,"she said, "and knowing what we know about each other, what now? Do we part ways?" She casually draped a hand over the table's corner pocket. "Or do we fight it out?"_

_Her eyes narrowed. Maurice looked right at her, and slowly reached inside his vest. _

"I remember when Monsieur Duceppe first came here," said Madame. "It was six years ago —"

"Four," said Monsieur.

"— Yes, four years ago, the poor dear. The radiator in his apartment was broken at the time, and it was the dead of winter. I kept him stocked on sweaters and mittens the whole week it took Toulouse to fix it."

"That was generous of you."

"Oh, it was no trouble at all," she replied. "It's what any good neighbour would have done. I knit them for the Veteran's Society all the time, and I had some left over."

"Did you happen to knit him a green sweater-vest with a white horse on the front pocket?" asked Mireille, recalling the image.

"Yes, I believe so. That was actually a bit of an accident; the vest was much too big. How did you know?"

"He was wearing it yesterday. I think he likes it, actually."

"Biscuit?" asked Maurice, as he pulled a packet of them from the vest.

_Mireille froze, hand clasped around something in the corner pocket, then blinked. Twice. "Um…what?"_

"_Tollhouse biscuit," said Maurice, setting them on the table. "Great with tea. Monsieur Trousseau swears by them." He picked one up. "Want one?"_

_Mireille, her face a curious mixture of fear, suspicion, and amusement, accepted it cautiously. "You…carry these everywhere, do you?" she asked._

"_Well, you did invite us for tea, didn't you?" said Cherise, her eye on the corner pocket._

_Mireille glanced at both of them, withdrew her hand slowly, and carefully set the cue ball on the table. "Of course," she said._

"_I make it a policy of mine not to shoot my neighbours," said Maurice, enjoying his biscuit. "You should, too, Miss Bouquet."_

"_Hold on a minute," she said. "You two honestly have no problem with me knowing your true identities? Even knowing who _I_ am?"_

"_Our business trades in lies, secrets, betrayals and death, Miss Bouquet," he said. "A little bit of honesty and trust does wonders to break up the monotony. You'd know that, if you'd been in the business as long as I have."_

"_Oh, I'm not complaining," she said. "Saves me the trouble of cleaning the walls," she added facetiously._

"Really? Well, then, I'll make him another one then, and this time, it'll be the right size!" said Madame. "It's always important to dress appropriately in this weather," she said.

"Mm," replied her neighbour, her thoughts elsewhere.

"Are you, um, cold, my dear?" asked Madame.

"Huh? Uh, no, not at all," said Mireille, in her barely-legal miniskirt. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, ah, erm, nothing, no reason at all!" sputtered Madame. "I, ah, just thought I felt a bit of a _draft_," she explained, dropping a not-so-subtle hint.

"Could be from that window you have open there," said Mireille, missing it. "Is there something wrong with your lights?" she asked, peering through the doorway. "You've got candles everywhere."

"Nothing wrong with beeswax, madam," replied Monsieur Trousseau. "Gives off a wonderful light and saves on the electric bill."

"Not that we need to," added his wife, with haste. "Peter's paid off all our old debts. This is just an old habit of ours."

"'Better to light a candle' and all that," continued Monsieur, still reading.

Mireille nodded, and gazed upon the darkness.

"_Four years ago," said Maurice, several minutes later, "I was ready to die. I had just killed a man with my bare hands. He was no one of significance, nothing but a tiny black thread in the web of crime that binds the world." He examined the tablecloth in detail. "He was a friend. He…was old enough to be my grandfather. And now he was nothing, just another stain of blood upon my sin-black hands. I thought back to all those that had come before him, to the too terribly long trail of death and deceit I had tread for ten long years, that endless progression of men and women whose lives were twisted, shattered, or, mercifully, ended by my words and actions. And for the first time, in far, far too long, I had to ask myself, 'Why?'"_

"_If he deserved it," asked Mireille, "why ask why?"_

_Anger flared in his eyes, and was quenched at a glance from his partner. "Someday," he said, with restraint, "you might come to question that line of reasoning, Miss Bouquet." _

"_Perhaps," she replied._

"_When I returned to France, I learned that seven top officials in my department, one of them my supervisor, were under investigation on charges of corruption. The same people I had trusted every day with my _life_," he added, fist clenched. "I'd spent fifteen years in the field hunting criminals on every continent and never thought to look over my own shoulder!" _

"I was a fool. Every assignment, I'd cut another link, kill another man, and I thought that soon, surely soon, the whole net would fall to pieces, and my country could at last sleep in peace. But the great web is so large we see but a little of it at a time, and influence even less. For every terrorist, arms dealer, and tin-pot dictator I felled, ten more would take their place. In one week, my most trusted allies had shown to me the blackness hidden in their hearts, had betrayed my country and myself. How could I be sure that corruption did not lie in every single one of those persons I joined the department to protect?" he asked.

"I could spend the rest of my life hacking away at such a shroud of darkness and in the end leave my hands so black with blood that it would consume me, claiming me as one of its own. And as I sat there in a public park, alone with my thoughts, I was aware of only two things: that there was a gun in my hands, and that there was one thread in that hopeless web I could cut forever."

"_And then?" said Mireille._

"_And then," replied Maurice, "I met them." _

"Did I ever show you what they brought us as souvenirs?" said Madame. "They gave me this darling beaded necklace," she said. "And a hand-made cane for Toulouse. Toulouse!" she said over her shoulder. "Where's that walking stick the Duceppes gave us?"

"It's in the umbrella stand beside you!" he shouted back. "Are you blind?"

"Here it is," she said, plucking it up.

"Interesting handle," said Mireille, examining it.

"Monsieur Duceppe said it's a charm against rats," explained Madame.

"Probably true," she replied, her face carefully neutral. "Are they always so generous, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I keep telling them there's no need," said Madame, "but every time they go abroad, they always bring back something for me and Toulouse. It's most embarrassing."

"I'm certain they don't mean to upset you."

"Oh no, no, no, there's no harm done," she replied. "But such extravagant gifts…what did we do to deserve them?"

"Maybe they see in you something they like?" suggested Mireille.

"They just walked by, sat right on the bench, and started talking to me," said Maurice. "For hours. Two complete strangers. Turns out I was on their bench. But they accepted me, immediately, without any questions; me, a man who had committed murder in a dozen different nations. They were so trusting, so happy, so blissfully unaware of the death and deceit I saw everywhere I could hardly believe they were for real."

"And that turned things around for you?" asked Mireille.

"I saw in them a reason to go on. Here were two people full of hope that by purest chance had happened upon me. And even if there were no others like them left in the world, I felt that if I fought for them, protected them, then maybe my life would not have been lived in vain." He paused, and blinked the passion from his eyes. "Anyway, that's why I'm here," he mumbled, sinking back into his chair.

"In us? Perish the thought!" said Madame, with a shake. "We're no different from other decent folk."

"Some would disagree," said her neighbour.

The front door clattered open. Ten patent-leather shoes shuffled in from the cold, and up the stairs.

"There he is," said Madame. "Hello, Peter."

"…All these clean-ups, funds will get tight — Mama?" Peter turned to a nearby overcoat. "We'll talk later."

"Good evening, gentlemen."

"Mm," replied Mr. Verloc. His companions were less vocal.

"What are you doing up so late, Mama?" said Peter, climbing the stairs. "You should be in bed already."

"I was worried about you, dear. You were out so late," she added, reproachfully.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Budget debate. The higher-ups have issued a bunch of absurd orders again, and I had to find the money for it."

"But did you have to stay so long? You missed dinner; you must be hungry by now. Toulouse! Toulouse, get some tea and sandwiches ready!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he grumbled, shuffling off to the kitchen.

"Uh, yes, Mama," said Peter, "I'm the Treasurer, I had to. Oh, good evening Miss Bouquet, didn't see you there."

"Evening," she replied, stepping out of the shadows.

"I, ah, don't suppose you've reconsidered my, eh, proposal, then?" He smiled, optimistically.

She smiled back.

"You're more of a dreamer than I would have thought," said Mireille.

A dangerous silence settled over the room.

"Yes, I am a dreamer," said Maurice, a touch of frost in his words. "You have to have to be, in this line of work. No one does what we do just for the money, Miss Bouquet. Not even you, I suspect."

"True," she replied. "But moving here and constructing an elaborate cover story, all out of some sense of chivalry? It seems a bit much."

Maurice half-rose, but Cherise restrained him with a touch. "Not if you realize what we have here, and what you can gain if you stay," replied Cherise.

"I…see," said Peter, slinking out of stomping range. "I'll, ah, just head in then."

"Would you care to join us, Miss Bouquet?" asked Madame. "The tea's reheated, and there's only cheese sandwiches, but we'd be delighted to have you."

"Thank you, Madame Trousseau," she replied, "but I've some research I'd best get started on this evening."

Madame nodded. "For your consultancy job, yes?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Well, how about this weekend then? Toulouse and I know this wonderful spot down by the river. Hmm?"

Mireille, halfway into her apartment, looked back.

An old, wrinkled, entirely trusting face beamed back at her.

"You meet all types in this business," said Cherise. "Cheats, thieves, spies, liars, killers, agents, and many more, correct?"

Mireille nodded, not sure where this was going.

"Now, think about them. Out of all the people you have met, how many would you consider enemies?"

"Too many."

"How many would you call 'ally'?"

Mireille thought for a moment. "Not more than a handful. Why?"

"And how many," asked Cherise, leaning in close, "would you call 'friend'?"

_She paused, set down her cup, and searched herself for an answer. _

"I'd…like that very much, Madame Trousseau," said Mireille.

"Wonderful, wonderful. Good night, then."

"'Night."

(Footnotes)

1. General Directorate for External Security, or France's military intelligence bureau.

2. AKA The Institute for Intelligence and Special Tasks. As above, except for Israel.

3. Official martial art of the Israeli special-forces.


	4. On Tea

**Chapter 4: On Tea**

"I'm just stepping out to the market," said Madame. "Peter said the cableman should be by at around 3:35, so be on the lookout for him, Toulouse."

"Don't know why he's bothering with it," said her husband, from the chaise. "Just twelve-hundred channels of 'Latvian Idol' and other garbage. How we can afford all this after the renovations, I don't know."

"He did say we had the money," said Madame, uncertainly. Monsieur grumbled. "I'll be back soon, then."

"Get some fresh cream, too!" he shouted after her. He settled back upon the chaise and stretched luxuriously. A soft spring breeze soughed through the open window. After a few moments, he reached out with one languorous arm and selected a specially modified poker from the stand by the hearth. Eyes closed, he manoeuvred it over his head, and used its rubber beak to poke at a small switch on an oaken box. The radio clicked. A young punk screamed a discordant techno-gothic number in his ear. Frowning, Monsieur Trousseau steered the poker 15 degrees due east, pulled the trigger mechanism, and closed the poker's jaws around a knob. A few rotations later, and a misty-eyed violinist began a slow, sad waltz through his imagination.

Outside, a foot creaked on a loose floorboard. He didn't notice.

A bell dinged. Monsieur Trousseau rolled off the chaise longue and trundled to the kitchen. Moments later, he returned, pushing a small TV tray (with one squeaky wheel) laid out for afternoon tea. He checked the egg timer, nodded, and placed it in his pocket. He lifted the lid on the teapot and took an exploratory sniff.

Paradise!

He twisted open the jar of marmalade, and spread some on two lightly toasted pieces of bread cut into quarters. Humming along with the melody, he grasped the pot, and slowly poured out a cup of heaven, making sure he didn't spill or miss a drop. He sat back, grasped the cup with reverence, raised it, took a long sniff, and then tipped it back for one, tiny, sip.

As he floated up to Elysium on the drink's heavenly body, a chill wind crept in from the window and tickled the back of his neck, dashing him back to Earth. Grousing, he rolled off the chaise longue and slammed it shut. As he turned back to his liquid ambrosia, he noticed the door was open. Scolding his wife for not locking it behind her, he marched over to it.

A tiny, waif-like Oriental girl was peeking around the doorframe. She started as he approached.

"Why, hello there," said Monsieur.

She looked up at him, her sad brown eyes lost in a forest of black hair.

His heart skipped a beat. The violinist floated away, leaving silence.

On the edge of his awareness came rustling noises from Miss Bouquet's apartment. Slowly, he leaned back to get a better look at her.

"And who are you, then, young lady?" he asked.

"Who…am I?" said the girl, her voice tinged with fear and confusion. There was a brief silence, broken by a distant gasp of realization.

"Yes, your name, dear." Monsieur Trousseau gave her a reassuring smile. She started slightly at his tea-stained dental work.

"I…I…" she said, her eyes glazing over slightly.

"Go on…" Running footsteps, boots squeaking around a corner…

"I am…N —"

"Kirika! Her name's Kirika!" said Mireille, practically falling through the doorway as she skid to a halt. "She's Kirika Yuumura and she an exchange student from Japan and she's staying with me for a while and that's all!"

"Oh," said Monsieur, who'd jumped a good foot when she appeared. "Thank you, Miss Bouquet. Are you all right? You look a bit winded."

"It's nothing, it's nothing," she said, with a weak smile. "Just, ah, remembered something important, that's all. I thought you'd followed me in, Kirika," she said, aside to her.

"I was," she replied in a near whisper, "but there was this music, and this wonderful smell, and…"

"Darjeeling tea, imported straight from the mountains of India, and served with but a single twist from a fresh lemon," said Monsieur, savouring the words as he spoke them. "Brewed for exactly four minutes twenty-eight seconds in fresh spring water. Your ticket to paradise on a lazy springtime afternoon." He grinned, a twinkle in his eye. "Care to try some?"

"Eh? _Eto_, ah, that is, I mean…"

"Come, come!" he cried, draping an arm around her shoulder. "Plenty for the both of us!"

"Ah!? Um, er, M-Mireille?"

"Relax," said the woman, encouragingly. "He's harmless. It'll take me a few minutes to look over those blueprints anyway. Go on."

"Thank you for your blessing, Miss Bouquet," purred Monsieur.

"Don't keep her too long," she replied, as he gently bulldozed his guest into the living room.

"Please, sit, sit! Sit and be welcome! Ah, not there, not there," he said, as the girl floated over to the easy-chair by the window. He fussed around for a bit, then wheeled an overstuffed ottoman with an ugly slipcover next to the tray. Kirika approached the stool, cautiously, and gave the old man a wary look.

He nodded, encouragingly.

She sat on it as if it were a spiked soap bubble.

He bustled out of the room. He returned with cup, spoon, and saucer, and laid each before her with all the grace and ceremony of an evening mass. As an unseen hand plucked strange sounds from a harpsichord over the radio, Monsieur Trousseau served the tea, and set down the pot with a flourish.

"We don't get very many guests around here," he said, "and even fewer with the refined sense of smell needed to appreciate the aroma of a fine tea."

"Sir?" said Kirika.

"Mm?"

"Who are you?"

Monsieur Trousseau gawked at her, then roared with laughter. "That's right," he chuckled, "I never did actually say, did I?"

Kirika, paralysed with fear, shook her head.

"Please forgive me, mademoiselle," he said, wiping tears from his eyes, "I'm just so used to everyone around here knowing my name already…I am Toulouse Trousseau, original owner and retired operator of this, _Le Château Sans Secrets_, est. 1949. And you are my honoured guest, here to share in the wonders of tea with me on this beautiful spring afternoon. Now, please, drink up!"

She took a hesitant sip.

"Ah, Miss Yuumura," he said, shaking his head, "I see you have much to learn yet." She gave him a blank stare. "Your style! So quick and dirty. Tea, my dear, is an art, and the true beauty of art lies not in its matter, but in its appreciation."

"See, first, you study the tea." He examined his cup at arms-length. "Study its colour, its tint, the way the light filters through it, whether it is cloudy or not, how far up the rim of the cup it rides. See? Amber: like the light of the setting sun on the surface of the Ganges. Next, savour its aroma." He sniffed luxuriously. "Can you smell it? That scent of morning mist on mountaintops, of distant gardens and fields of exotic flowers?" He breathed in the steam. "And now, only now, do we take a taste. Slowly, with both hands, we tip back the cup, and sip." He mimed the act. "Feel the texture of the liquor. Savour its body. Roll it over your tongue. Then, at last, swallow. Let its warmth snake down inside you, and carry you away to better times." He took a drink.

"That's…a lot to remember," said Kirika.

"Oh ho ho, don't worry about all that. It takes years to master, and you've got plenty ahead of you yet. Just try and enjoy it, eh?"

"I do," she said, drinking. "It's very good," she said, her face perfectly expressionless.

Monsieur Trousseau smiled at her strangely, and cleared his throat. "I remember my very first taste of Darjeeling: nineteen-forty-four, in an old, draft-ridden farmhouse on the outskirts of Bayeux. It was the middle of the night, a cool summer eve. The night sky was clear for the first time in weeks. Quiet, too. There we were, Javier, Philippe, Robert, and I, huddled around the crystal set. None of us could sleep. Tomorrow was the big day, what we had spent four months training for. I remember I was so nervous, my hands, they shook like leaves when I was checking the wires, and let me tell you," he said, chuckling, "that made the others plenty nervous too!"

"We reviewed the plans, checked our gear, checked it again, then again…and then finally there was nothing to do but wait. There was no way we could sleep…not even for Javier, and he slept through an air raid once. So there was Philippe off in the corner of the loft, there, with his book of poems, reading by moonlight, Robert with him, looking over his maps, and Javier, with his rosary, and me, by the window, scared out of my wits. I was on guard. There I was, but sixteen years old, peeping out of a knothole over the fields, ears tense. Every cricket was a rifle bolt, every shadow a patrol. "

He took a draw on his cup. "After what felt like hours, Robert folded up his maps, put them away, and motioned us all in close. Anyway, he says, in that soft English accent of his (he was OSS, y'know), 'Lads, I know you're all nervous, and that's okay. I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow, but I know tonight's a special night. So, I, ah, I've got something for all of you that I've been saving up.' And he brings this old, shrivelled little bag of tea out of his pocket. He must have had it there for months. So we fired up a little kerosene lantern, brought out an old tin pot, and had a brew-up." He sighed.

"Was it like this?" asked Kirika, hesitantly.

"Oh, no, it was awful stuff," said Monsieur, softly, his mind ages away. "Cold, and we forgot to clean the pot first. But that didn't matter. I was young, alive, and among friends, sharing a drink under the stars. I didn't even finish the cup. I just sat there with it, in my cold hands, and looked at it." He stared off into the past. "There it was: a smooth, round pool, its ripples glittering in the moonlight. The sounds of the night, even my own breath, faded away, as I floated through its cool, dark depths, going down, down, down. There was…comfort…there. No painful past, no terrifying tomorrow."

"No past…no future…" she whispered, as her face looked back at her from the cup.

"There was only…now. The peace of the now."

"'The peace of the now…'"

"And that was enough." He closed his eyes.

"Those men…" said Kirika.

"Hm?" Monsieur awoke from the past.

"The men in your story…what happened to them?"

Slowly, and with an apparent reluctance, he drifted back to the present. "They, were, ah, killed the next day," he said.

"Oh."

The old clock ticked on.

Monsieur cleared his throat. "So, ah, where does it take you, Miss Yuumura?"

She blinked at him in non-comprehension.

"Every cup is a window to the past, my dear. Where does yours lead, mm?"

"My…past?" The word carried with it all the sorrows of the world, and she sagged under its weight. "I…I have nothing to look back on…no memories…"

The unseen harpsichord strummed slowly to a halt. A hand, gnarled and calloused with age, brushed against her fingers like a springtime branch, startling her.

"Do not worry, my dear," said Monsieur. "The past begins now. If you have no happy times to remember, they will surely come in the days ahead. But why are you so sad?" he asked. "It's only tea."

Kirika looked up at that old, wrinkled face, full of concern, with its squinty eyes and tea stained teeth. "I…"

A knock at the door, and a blonde poked around it. "Kirika?" said Mireille. "I'm about ready over here."

"So soon? But we haven't even got to the marmalade yet!" said Monsieur, as Kirika quickly finished off her cup.

"Perhaps another time, Monsieur Trousseau. I hope you two enjoyed yourselves?"

"She is an angel on Earth, and this home is blessed to have her," he said magnanimously.

"I guess you did!"

As Kirika was halfway through the door, she remembered something. "Thank you very much for the tea," she said, bowing. "I enjoyed it."

"Anytime, my dear," he replied.

The door clicked shut. On the radio, a tired announcer tried to decipher his notes on Schubert. Monsieur Trousseau raised his cup, thought better of it, and set it down. His eyes drifted over to a dusty picture frame on the mantle, then to the door.

"Remarkable," he said.


	5. Everyday Life

**Chapter 5: Everyday Life**

"It's fate, of course."

"Baah, don't give me that, Cosette."

"It's true and you know it, Toulouse," she said. "And what a beautiful thing it is. Two complete strangers meet in the land of the rising sun, overcome their differences, discover their common past, and, at last, surrender to the bonds of love!"

"It was planned from the start by their handlers," replied Monsieur.

"Nonsense. It was romantic destiny, plain and simple!"

"It's Jennifer Lopez and Dennis Rodman, for goodness sake!" said Monsieur. "I can't believe you actually read this garbage," he added, handing the tabloid back.

"It's a well-written publication with insightful social commentary about our modern world," she said, in all seriousness. She meticulously counted out her change for the newsman. "And has quality photography, to boot."

Monsieur shook his head in disgust.

The afternoon sun peeked its way through a break in the gathering clouds. The old couple hobbled through the commercial riot that was Place de Palau on market day, weaving their way between hagglers and hucksters and their colourful conversations, as money and merchandise exchanged hands both over and under the tables. Madame Trousseau fluttered from stall to stall, sifting through dubious fruits and vegetables in search of the one true bargain, as Monsieur trundled behind with the trolley, its mended wheels creaking under the load.

"What is this, anyway?" asked Monsieur, pointing to a ball of spikes.

"It's a durian, Toulouse, from Asia. Monsieur Golgo gave me a little recipe for it before he moved out last week. He said it would make a darling dessert."

"Did he?"

"Well, no, actually he said, '…' but he was very enthusiastic about it."

"Never trusted him. Too quiet. Shifty eyes, too. Ugh, this stinks," he mumbled, in regards to the fruit.

"You just never took the time to talk to him," she replied. "If you'd taken the time to get to know him a little better, like you are with Miss Bouquet …"

"Yes, but she's different. A real neighbour. Trustworthy. Kind. And, heh-heh, and one hell of a —"

"Hmmmm?" said Madame, casually brandishing a banana.

"— Conversationalist," he finished, lamely. "Have, ah, you met that guest of hers, Kirika, yet?"

She nodded. "Strange girl. Did you know she shaves?"

"What?" he said, in disbelief.

"It's true! I met her in the hall last Thursday night and she had this sort of pink line near her throat. And when I asked her about it, she said —"

"Shaving accident," said Mireille.

"_Eh?" said Madame._

"_Eh?" said Kirika._

"She gets the strangest ideas sometimes," said the blonde, with a completely straight face.

"Huh. Strange people, those Japanese," said Monsieur, shaking his head.

"But very polite."

"Hm."

"Thanks."

"_Just remember," said Mireille, "don't use too much foundation, and spread it around the edges so it blends in. You might need a bit of concealer too. There," she said, stepping aside. "Take a look."_

_Kirika did. The thin, red weal from the garrotte had vanished, but was still there, beneath the surface. She could still feel the wire around her neck, digging, cutting, crushing, choking, killing her, still hear the terrible rattle-wheeze of her desperate breaths, still sense her arm moving of its own volition, reaching, grabbing, breaking, stabbing, shooting —_

"_And next time," said Mireille, stepping into the living room, "keep your back to the wall, even if you think you're alone. Next time, you might not be so lucky."_

_She touched the scar, wondering if it would ever heal._

"Nasty looking spot here; why'd you bother with this one?"

"It was all he had," said Madame, "and I need it for dinner tonight."

"Chaudrée _again?_"

"If you don't like it, you can cook your own." Monsieur growled unintelligibly. She cherished her small victory. "What's wrong with squid? Peter likes it."

"No he doesn't. Practically gags on every bite."

"That's _you_, Toulouse."

"'Like father, like son.'"

"And if he doesn't like it, how come he's never said anything?"

"He doesn't want to hurt you, that's all!"

"And you do?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

They hobbled through the arts and crafts section. Monsieur muttered something along the lines of "devious she-fiend," and Madame made another mark on her personal scoreboard.

"And, and don't try and act all Miss Perfect on me," he said. "You'd do the exact same in my situation."

"Never will, and never have," she replied.

"Ah HA! What about that horrible orange hat Madame Duceppe got you from Australia, eh? The one you 'wear all the time'?"

"I do wear it; she's seen it with her own eyes."

"The one I found in the gutter last week?"

"…Must have slipped off in the wind," she said.

The wind howled in the night. Its tears ran rivulets down the windowpanes.

_Mireille, lit by the ghastly glow of the flat panel, listened to its lament as she typed up a terse message of success to her contractor. Nearby, her young partner watched as the all the detritus of city life washed into the gutter. _

"_You all right?" she asked her, after sending the message._

_Rain spattered against the glass like blood. _

"_Listen, you had a close call tonight. You're probably a bit shaken up right now. That's normal."_

"_Normal…" whispered Kirika, feeling her neck._

_Her partner sighed. "Well, as normal as things get in our line of work. But you did well, extremely well, actually. You followed the plan, did your job." _

"_And now he is dead," she said._

"_Yes. And it's no more than what he deserved." She slid closer to her side. "This is the life I live, Kirika. It is a life of death and deception, but maybe it's the only one right for this world I live in."_

_Kirika thought this over. "That old woman, the one in the hall…"_

"_Madame Trousseau? What about her?"  
_

"_Is she a part of that life?"_

"She's a deep thinker, that girl."

"Who?"

"That girl, that Kirika, the one staying with Miss Bouquet."

"She's so very shy," said Madame. "Hardly said a word when I ran into her yesterday."

"Sign of a deep thinker, that," affirmed Monsieur. "You can see it in her eyes, too. Such strange eyes…" He trailed off.

"You see it too, then?" He nodded, slowly. "The Fates, they be strange ones," said Madame, as she examined a florist's wares by an outdoor café.

"Bit of a coincidence, certainly, that she'd choose to come here."

"_What do you mean?" asked Mireille._

"_When you told her that story…"_

"_It was all I could think of, sorry. But she believed it, so —"_

"_My name is not my own. My life is a lie. And now I have made others a part of that lie. Was there no other way? Must I always live like this?"_

"_Kirika…"_

"_If a lie is big enough," she asked, looking out into the dark night, "does it become true?"_

"She's adjusting to life here well enough," said Madame. "I'll take some of those darling white lilies, Yvette."

"Belladonnas? Sorry ma'am," said the florist, "fresh out of them."

"Oh dear."

"Two ladies bought up my whole shipment in just three days. I'll have some more in next week."

"Why do you want those?" asked Monsieur. "Why not some violets? You like violets."

"Miss Bouquet had this lovely arrangement of them yesterday," said Madame. "And the colour would really brighten up the room, don't you think?"

"Hmph. Fine the way it is."

"Some flowering reeds, then. Wrap them up please."

"I hope she'll be okay," said Monsieur, as they left the marketplace. "Bit intimidating for her, being foreign and all."

"Miss Bouquet's a very worldly individual," said Madame. "I'm sure she'll help her find her way."

"You've been through a lot," said Mireille, after an interval. "You should get some sleep."

_Kirika nodded. Outside, the rain fell._


	6. Two Sides

**Chapter 6: Two Sides…**

"Oh, never you mind, Lieutenant, I'll be fine. The house is just 'round the corner! You get back to keeping the streets safe now, you hear?"

Lieutenant Blanche wished Madame a safe journey, said his goodbyes, and drove off.

Scattered couples hurried home as Madame Trousseau waddled down the riverside walkway. The paving stones glowed with the ruddy gold of the setting sun. Sheets of sliver flame coruscated over the water, an escort of candles guiding ships into the night, a perfect compliment to its natural aroma.

A glass clinked.

There, by the railing at the edge of the water, a stout tumbler had met its mate, and was now raised in salute to persons unknown by a familiar figure, half-shadowed though it was.

"Is that you, Miss Bouquet?" asked Madame, as she hobbled over to the railing.

"Mm? Oh. Evening, Madame Trousseau. I forgot you walked this way."

"Beautiful scenery, great exercise, completely safe, and downhill both ways," she quipped. "Who wouldn't?"

She said nothing, leaning over the rail, watching the water, the half-filled glass dangling from her fingers. Its mate stood with a bottle of scotch on a nearby post, empty.

"Is, ah, something the matter, dear?"

"No," said the blond, softly. "I just thought I needed some time to think. Alone."

She nodded, sagely. "I'll leave you to it, then. Don't stay out too late, now," she added, as she turned to go.

"Wait!"

She did.

"Wait," sighed Mireille. "I…thought…I did, but maybe I was wrong."

Wordlessly, she shuffled back, and settled onto a nearby spot on the railing. A late ship slipped by along the opposite side of the river.

"Where's Monsieur?" asked the blonde, once it passed.

"He wanted to fix the Bruns' windows. Peter's had it on his to-do list all week, but he's been out at nights all hours, he's too tired to do much of anything lately. Toulouse wanted to surprise them when they got back. Bruised his ankle on the last step, he did." She shook her head. "I told him to be careful on that ladder, but would he listen?"

Waves lapped against the river's walls.

"This is a lovely spot, isn't it?" said Madame. "Y'know, I've lived here my entire life, and I don't think I'll ever get tired of this place. The warm evening sun, the ships in the water, drifting by like dreams…my old friend, the Seine, always changing, always the same. A place to reflect, to think back, to remember…old friends."

Her neighbour grinned, sadly. "Is it that obvious?"

"Well, two glasses, one person. And there's the inscription," said Madame, with a nod to the bottle.

"I trusted him," said Mireille, carefully. "He had…insight…into the ways of the world. He was always there with an answer whenever I had a question. This was a gift," she said of the bottle. "A bit of parting advice, I guess."

"I remember," said Madame, apropos of nothing, "an evening back in 1960 that was just like this one. Oh, the water was cleaner, and they didn't have this new guardrail in yet (how sturdy it is!). But we were all here. Just down that way, actually, by the wharf, do you see it? My brother Felix was in town and treated us all to a day on the town. That Felix," she said, smiling at the memory. "Huge man, with flaming red hair, a chest like a locomotive, and a voice to match."

"We went up the Tower, of course (Felix was a maniac for heights). I remember how he'd pretend to hold little Peter over the edge. He'd squeal with fright, and Felix would laugh with that sky shaking voice of his. Later, over dinner, he started up one of his tall tales about his time with the navy (I don't remember which one). Anyway, that got Peter and Marien all excited, and they demanded we all go sailing that very instant."

"Well, Toulouse and I, we knew it was too late; all the ports were closed. But Felix, well, he said," and here her voice dropped an octave, "'Don't werry yer pretty little heads, children. Felix will get things done!' Turns out he knew someone who managed a tour service. In less than ten minutes we were all out right in the middle of the Seine in this ugly little aluminium dingy he'd weaselled out of the fellow."

"And as we drifted along into the setting sun, Felix brought out this wretched flask of what he called whiskey. Whoof! You could have curled paint with it. He could never hold his own very well. After a few healthy swings, he stood up, feet on the gunnels, and started belting out this dreadful sea-shanty. I think half the city must have heard it. So, of course, Toulouse tried to get him to keep it down, but he just got louder and louder. Finally, he got to his big, arm-swinging finish, when whoops! This red-hot speedboat almost knocked us over. We were fine, if a bit wet, of course; we were all sitting down. But Felix?" She quaked with laughter. "Right overboard into the Seine, flask, song, and all!"

"Still, sounds like you had a good time," said Mireille.

"Well," said Madame, "Felix was furious, of course, but mostly with himself. It was a night to remember, certainly. The last night all five of us were together as a family."

"What happened?" asked her neighbour, with a touch of concern.

"Well, Marien would move away in '68, of course. As for Felix, well, he never was one to stick around long. He sailed off around the world, and never returned. He wrote, of course, up until '83, when the accident occurred."

"Accident? Did he —"

"Oh yes. Choked while swallowing a trout whole."

A foghorn blared.

"That…that's so terrible," said Mireille, hiding her face.

"Yes it was," said Madame, sadly. "He hated fish."

Her neighbour gawked at her, then tried desperately to stifle a laugh at her quaking shoulders. She failed.

"But it was the way he would have wanted to go, I think," said Madame, after they'd settled down. "Life of the party, a drink in hand, among friends and good cheer."

"Thank you, Madame," said Mireille. "I needed that. There's been a lot on my mind lately."

"You worry too much, Miss Bouquet," she teased. "A young woman like you? You needn't have a care in the world."

"I know," she lied. She set down the tumbler, and held the bottle up for examination. "The man who gave me this, my…friend…I asked him for a favour. A big one. He granted it. He…passed away, soon after."

"Oh," said Madame. "I'm so sorry."

"And," she continued, "and I can't help but think —"

"I killed them," she thought. She drained the glass. "I deal in death," she thought, as the amber liquid burned her throat. "It follows my every step. I am its right hand. I reached out to him, and it claimed him, claimed his entire family." She closed her eyes, and saw the faces of those few she called "friend."

"Will they be any different?"

She choked off the end of the sentence, teeth clenched.

"Miss Bouquet…Mireille." Madame leaned out over the railing. "We all make choices in life, my dear. Now, whatever happened between you and that man, that's your business —"

"Yes," she said, bitterly. "My business…"

"— But if he chose to help you, well, that's his business, now isn't it? He had his own reasons for helping you. And in making that choice, he chose to bear its consequences, whatever they might be." Madame pointed at a tiny sailboat, out for a late-night journey. "See that? When I was young, Felix would go out on this little raft of his every weekend, no matter the weather. Even when it was raining cats and dogs, he'd push off, rod in hand, and float down the Seine, dodging the ships, spinning in the currents, splashing through the waves. And I would always say to him, 'Don't go. You'll be hurt. Don't go.' I said those same words when he joined the navy at the start of the war. And on that day, he took me aside, and he told me something. Do you know what he said to me?"

Mireille shook her head.

"Well, he picked me up in those big arms of his, and said, 'Cosette, the sea calls to me. My country calls upon me. And if I do not answer, I will regret it for the rest of my life. I do not know what lies around the next bend. But I put my trust in God, and I will sail for him. He may guide my ship into safe harbour or sharp rock, and there is not a thing me and you can do about it. But I can, and I have, choose where to sail in the meantime.' Then he kissed me on the cheek, walked out the front door, and I never saw him again for the rest of the war."

Her neighbour thought on this for some time. "He was a religious man, this Felix?"

"Only when drinking," replied Madame. "Bit of a polytheist, actually. There now, that's better," she said, as a smile broke out in her neighbour. "That's the face a young woman should have!"

Mireille tipped some of the bottle into the empty tumbler, and offered it to her. She accepted it gracefully, its contents made liquid flame in the evening light.

"To old friends, no longer present," said Mireille, with a touch of sadness.

Madame charged her glass in return. "And to new ones, still here today."

Two glasses clinked.


	7. to a Conversation

**Chapter 7: …to a Conversation**

A little bit of night music twinkled over the radio. Monsieur Trousseau limped in from the kitchen, leaning heavily on his cane.

Someone knocked. Thrice.

"Not locked, come in. Damn!"

A twinge in his leg toppled him to the ground. He grabbed for the mantelpiece.

Slipped.

Fell.

Stopped?

"Monsieur?" The little Asian girl from across the way lowered him gently onto the chaise longue. Behind her, the door bounced back on its hinges, and a table lamp wobbled slightly.

"Oh, er, Miss Yuumura," he said, slightly winded. "What brings you here?"

"Your leg. It's hurt."

"Ahh, it's nothing, it's nothing," he growled. "Slipped on the ladder this afternoon. Told Cosette to hold it steady, but did she listen?"

"I'll get the kit," said Kirika, as she swept out the door.

"No, no, don't bother, it's not that —" He gave up, and settled back on the chaise. After a few moments, he shifted into his favourite spot. He winced. Something was digging at his back. He felt around behind him, and found it.

An old memory.

"Huh," he said to the room at large. "Must have knocked it down. Thought I got rid of this."

"Of what?"

He fumbled it in surprise.

"Oh. Didn't hear you come in," said Monsieur.

The girl said nothing, intent on searching the first aid kit.

"Ah, nice catch, by the way."

Kirika, still looking through the kit, wordlessly placed the fallen picture frame on the side table, and then brought out a tensor bandage. He made a feeble protest, and then let her see to his leg.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" he asked, as she wrapped the bandage.

"Mireille wanted to be alone. I didn't."

"Well, you're in for a treat then!" he said. "Darjeeling, Jasmine, Caravan, you've all tried, but tonight? China White. Been saving it for a special occasion."

"Tonight is special?" she asked.

"The sun is shining, the sky is clear, and I'm still kicking. Special enough for me." A bell went 'ding.' "Ah, could you get that…?"

The TV tray squeaked its way into the living room, followed by Kirika. "Monsieur Molbe, he runs the shop on the corner, he imports a bit of this every month or so," explained Monsieur. "I was telling Monsieur Duceppe about it last week. Then, then he reaches into his coat and brings out this great pouch of the stuff. Direct from Fukien Province, no labels or anything. Said he passed through there a few months back. Ahh, look! Look!" he said, as he served it. "Gold as liquid light…"

"What's this?"

"Hm?" Kirika was holding the old picture frame. It held a medal pinned to a slip of cheap cardboard.

"This medal. What's it for?"

"Just a trinket," he mumbled. "A relic of the past."

She turned it over. "'Patria Non Immemor,'" she read.

"Not important. Worthless."

"No." She touched it. "It's important. It's a memory. A part of you, a part of your past."

"Like I said," he replied, "worthless. Put it back up in the corner there, behind that picture, please."

"But…"

"Then you can try one of these tea biscuits. They're quite good, you know." He crunched one messily. "Augh, crumbs."

Kirika looked on him with a mixture of pity and disbelief, and then crept over to the mantelpiece.

Monsieur took a sip, and boarded a slow boat to China. "Nah, not there, child," he said, "over more, way in the back. That's better."

"So many pictures," she breathed.

"It's Cosette," he said. "Maniac for photographs. What's wrong with memory, I say? Keep your mind active and you'll have all the film you ever need. More than you want, actually," he mumbled.

"This girl?"

The cup froze halfway to his lips.

"This girl, here." She stood on her toes and grabbed a small picture next to where she'd placed the medal. "She's not in any of the other pictures. Who is she?"

The slow boat sank. He exhaled, scattered the cup's soothing steam, and set it down.

"If you don't want to talk…" she said, hesitantly.

"That's Marien," he said. "My daughter."

"I didn't know you had one. Is she…?"

"Dead? Oh, good heavens no," he replied, forcing a chuckle. "To her," he mumbled, "we might well be." He noticed her blank expression. "We, we don't talk very much."

"You don't?"

"Rather _she_ doesn't."

She looked from daughter to parent. "But…why?"

"If you want the whole story," he sighed, "you might as well sit down." She did, slowly, placing the picture between them. Outside, the sky faded from fire orange to a dull, bloody red.

"She was our first child," he began. "Born late evening, March 14, 1952." A tea-thin grin crept over his face unheeded. "Beautiful. Eyes like lakes in summer moonlight. A cardinal's voice. Hair like a mop. Dark, dark brown, dark as old oak. We didn't have much money back then; we'd just renovated this place, and the job market was terrible. But she went to school all the same. Played the violin. I, I remember, we were walking by L'Arc, and there was this wrinkled old fellow with one leg, tanned black by the sun. And he was strumming along, going da daaah da da dah daaah da!" he said, miming the motions, "sweat flying from his face, bow singing. How she laughed! That laugh, the tinkle of chimes on the wind!"

"I hurried her along to the nearest music shop. Oh, it took months of course, but I saved and saved, and on her eighth birthday, I gave it to her. Soon, every day, there was music in this house, such beautiful music. And Cosette and I, we knew someday we would hear her in the symphony, and she would play for de Gaulle, she would play for kings and queens…Aaaah, but I'm boring you," he trailed off.

"Mm-mm." She shook her head.

"Well, I guess I might as well finish it…" he said, taking a sip of tea.

She leaned forward, listening with rapt attention.

"She fussed over Peter all the time, like a good sister. There was one time, he was flying a kite in the park, and the string, it sort of, slipped, out of his fingers. This great wind carried it up to the very highest tree. Well, Marien, she takes one look at him, and away she goes. Scampers up the tree like a monkey and grabs it. Got her brand new dress all muddied and torn. Oh, we gave her such a talk when she got back home. But the thing about Marien, she talked back. There, there was spirit in her. She said someone had to do it, someone had to help, and she was there, and where were we?"

"She was always like that, as she grew older. Around the table, at dinner, I'd read the headlines from the paper, and she'd debate forever on every little point. She go on and on about the tests and the war, about how France needed to be _strong_. And we'd argue with her. She didn't know war, you see. Didn't know how precious peace was."

"Pretty soon, there wasn't as much music anymore. Just words. Angry words. Things were said…that should not have been. And then, one night, she moved out. Without a word. Joined up with this young man of hers. Went to college. Moved overseas. Works in an embassy, I think." He took a nervous sip, grimaced, and set the cup aside.

"She doesn't write?" asked Kirika. "Or visit?"

"Dropped by once in '93. Told us we were grandparents," he spat.

"But, you're her _father_," she said, in disbelief. "Her family. Family…its important…its --"

"What I took from her. Family." The words swirled round inside her head as she walked slowly away. Behind her, a jubilant young woman stepped forth in the opposite direction, off to a meeting with destiny. "Will she see him there, as I left him? Her father? Dead? By my hand?"

She clenched her fists, and willed the tears to come. They did not. "I want…to feel. Something. Anything. But there is nothing, nothing. No sadness. No regret. Just the weight of sin, pulling me down, down, down. What I can do? What I can say?" She shivered, despite the warm weather.

"How can I find release?"

"Not to her," he growled.

An uncomfortable silence followed. He grumbled, and scratched at his back; the frayed, woollen strands of the chaise longue's slipcover galled him.

"Do you…write…to her?"

"Mm?"

"Do you write to her?"

He stared at her. Same distant eyes, but was there something more there now? "Uh, no, no," he said, looking away. "Not for a long time, anyway."

"You should try again."

He laughed softly, as those who see no hope do. "She won't write back. What would be the point?"

Something soft settled onto his arm. A hand. He noticed, and looked up.

There _was_ something there. The way the setting sun caught them: same sadness, same emptiness, but somehow…closer?

"You, you have, so much here," she began, thinking over each word. "A wife. A son. A daughter. A past."

He mumbled something dismissively.

"My parents. I never knew them…well," she continued, adding the last word upon noticing his expression. "Children…should know their parents. But so much can change in an instant. You wake up, and everyone's gone. You should write to her, to your grandchildren. Tell them, about that," she said, with a glance at the dusty medal. "Before, before it's too late. I, I mean, um…" She trailed off, and drew back, seemingly embarrassed.

A clink of old china. Monsieur Trousseau gave the tea another try. "Your friend, Miss Bouquet," he said. "She said the same thing to me three months ago."

"Oh," she whispered, realizing what that meant.

"Ahh, don't worry about me," he said, patting her hand. "I'm just an old man who's too stubborn for his own good. I shouldn't be loading my troubles onto you."

"You're not. Your stories, I like them."

"Bah," he bahed, bashfully. He rose to put the picture in its place. "You'd best start on that before it gets cold," he added, referring to the tea.

She did. If she enjoyed it, it wasn't apparent.

A floorboard creaked in the hall. Two voices approached, one laughing. The door opened.

"— and _whoop!_ Popped right back out again!" said Madame.

"That's terrible," said Mireille, her expression suggesting otherwise.

"Cosette? Why so late? It's almost ten," said Monsieur, gesturing towards the clock.

"Oh, I just ran into —"

"Mireille…" said Kirika, noticing her.

"— Yes, and we got to talking. You know how it is."

"No I don't!"

"I see you found something to do then?" said Mireille, with a nod to her roommate.

"Trip to the Orient," said Monsieur, proffering the cup. "Care to join us?"

"Maybe another time. Oh," she said, snapping her fingers, "I still have that recipe book you loaned me. Did you —"

"Baaah," replied Monsieur, "keep it. Read it a thousand times. Author doesn't know his Earl Grey from his Earl Green."

"I didn't think he was _that_ bad."

"Ehh, it's a good one if you're starting out, I suppose. You might find it useful, Miss Yuumura."

"I've read it," she replied, setting down her cup. "It is."

"Kirika?" said Mireille. "We better turn in; early flight tomorrow, remember."

"Off on another business trip, eh?" said Madame.

"Uh, yeah," said Mireille, evasively. "We have to meet a man in Russia."

"Russia? I've head it's cold there this time of year; you'd better bundle up!"

"We will."

Kirika finished her cup, gave thanks, and then rose to leave. She cast one last look back at the mantle, glanced sadly at Monsieur Trousseau, and then closed the door behind her.

"I do hope she'll be all right," said Madame, as she settled into her easy chair. "She has so much on her mind, it seems, the poor girl."

"Mm," agreed Monsieur, lost in thought.

"But that's the way of youth, I guess," she said, taking up a slipcover she was patching. "You get all caught up in the troubles and grudges of the day that you end up forgetting all the joy in life. I just hope she remembers before it's too late."

"Cosette," he said, after a few moments.

"Mm?"

"Do we have any stamps?"


	8. Friendship

**Chapter 8: Friendship**

"Mireille, are you sure about this?"

"No, I'm not. But we've already cancelled on them five times; I don't want to act suspicious. Or rude. We'll do it; we'll just have to be careful, that's all."

"What a lovely day for a walk in the park," said Madame.

"Same as it was yesterday," replied Monsieur, stumping along.

"Exactly my point."

"Point? What point? There's no point."

"Yes there is. We've the same breeze, the same sunny sky as yesterday, except now we get to share it with someone else! There's no day that's too good that it can't be made better with the company of a good friend and neighbour."

"Yeah, I guess," said Mireille, looking over her shoulder. Kirika, next to her, kept her eye on a passing butterfly.

"Oh, don't be such a glum-muffin, Miss Bouquet," said Madame, ribbing her with her elbow. "It's a beautiful day; what's to stop you from enjoying it, eh?"

Mireille glared at the two photocopies before her. "So," she thought, "I'm no closer to figuring any of this out, the Sicilian Mafia wants my head, the Paris police are on high-alert after D'Estaing, and a mysterious world-spanning organization that wants to kill me knows where I live, and has invited me to meet with them in what is an obvious trap. And then there's her, of course." She could still feel the cold sharpness of the blade against her neck, still remember how that woman had stared down two loaded guns without even batting an eye. "And the only reason why I'm still alive is because someone's playing some sort of stupid game with my life, and there's a good chance I'll lose before I even learn the actual rules." She felt a headache coming on.

"This is quite possibly the worst day of my life," she noted.

"Nothing, I guess," she replied. "You two come here often, then?"

"Well, we've been trying to get you out here since you moved in, so I guess the answer is 'yes,' dear," said Madame.

"Yeah, sorry about that. We've been busy."

"Well, I'm glad you two found the time at last. Life's too short not to take the time out to enjoy it and all. Although I guess things can't be _too_ dull at that consulting job of yours."

"It's a bit stressful," she said, squinting at something in the distance, "but you do see the sights."

"And how was New York, then?"

She considered this question for some time. "Crowded," she said.

"You went to Central Park, of course?"

"Ah, no. Didn't have time; we were pretty busy. Lot of meetings."

"No loss," grunted Monsieur. "Park's probably full of crooks anyway. Mafia, y'know. Very big in New York."

"I've always wanted to visit the Big Snapple at some point," mused Madame. "I know some of the girls in the old neighbourhood ended up there; it would be so much fun to get in touch with the old gang again."

"Run into any old friends on your trip, Miss?" asked Monsieur.

The shock of the impact ran up her arm. The blade went deep. Someone screamed.

The one from her past slumped to the ground. Her family…was avenged.

"No," she replied, suppressing a shiver.

Kirika glanced at her, briefly. "The hat," she said to Monsieur. "Do you…?"

"It's, ah, it's — " He grunted as Madame accidentally stumbled into him. "It's very nice. Fits well. Blocks out the sun. 'Mets'; that's baseball, yes?" Kirika nodded. "Never understood it. More of a polo fan, myself. Ah, thanks."

"Oh, he's just being modest," said Madame. "Why, just before we left, he was saying how he was going to throw out that old ratty cap of his and wear this one instead."

"I did? Ow!" Madame had inexplicably elbowed him in the ribs. "Yes, yes, I did, I did!"

"Good," said Madame. "And thank you very much for the photo-book, Miss Bouquet; I enjoyed it."

"I'm glad you did," she replied. "Anything interesting happen while we were out?"

"Hmmm. Well, Monsieur Violet (he's the accountant down in 1-B, remember?), he got engaged recently."

"Really? To whom?"

"Englishwoman," said Monsieur. "Miss Marple."

"What, like the book?"

Monsieur grunted in the affirmative. "Gets that a lot, apparently. Charming woman, though."

"I'll have to congratulate them sometime," noted Mireille.

"Monsieur Golgo dropped by last week," said Madame. "Just for a few nights. Actually, he forgot a lot of his luggage when he left; I hope he comes back for it sometime…"

"Always in and out, he is," said Monsieur. "He'll be back."

"Oh, and Peter started redoing the wallpaper on the first floor."

"I noticed," said Mireille. "I think I saw him in town yesterday as well."

"Playing with his new car," huffed Monsieur.

"He looked tired," noted Kirika.

"Eh? Should be; all morning in the office, evenings at that club of his, afternoons at that Department…work himself to death he will…"

"The NSB? I thought he quit?" said Mireille.

"Did. 'Cept after the shake-up they had few months ago, they called him back. Part-time, thank goodness. Too dangerous, that job. Life's risky enough as is; no call for getting in the line of fire like that."

"Sometimes, there is no choice," said Kirika, softly.

"Oh, don't be bothered with him, dear," said Madame. "He's just an old gloom-monger. Why, he even said it'd be pouring rain today, and look! Not a cloud in the sky."

"That wasn't me, that was the weatherman!" protested Monsieur.

"Oh, but you believed him, Toulouse. Even wanted to bring an umbrella with us and everything, can you believe it?" she added, aside to Kirika.

"What's wrong with that?" cried Monsieur.

"Well, it _is_ pretty clear out," noted Mireille.

"There could be a wind, or a sudden squall! You never know!"

"Never," replied Madame. "Bad weather, when four good neighbours have gotten together at last? Oh no, no, no. The universe doesn't work like that; it wouldn't dare dampen a perfect moment like this!"

"Hmph," said Monsieur, in a devastating rebuttal. A smirk tugged at Mireille's lips, briefly.

The neighbours stepped leisurely down the winding tree-lined avenue, dappled in the afternoon sun by the thin canopy of branches overhead. A pair of children walking a dog scampered past, laughing. Soon they came upon a clearing by a small lake with a fountain by it. "Ah, here's the spot," said Madame. She sat on a bench facing the lake; the others joined her. Immediately, a small mob of pigeons waddled up to them and surrounded their position.

"Blasted birds," grumbled Monsieur. "Menace to society." He pulled a bag out of his jacket, reached in, and variously tried to feed and concuss the birds with the bread-crumbs it contained. After a few moments, he passed a handful over to Kirika, who did the same (albeit more gently).

"He does this every week," whispered Madame to Mireille. "One of them tried to steal his shoelaces last year; it was just the cutest thing you'd ever saw. Melted his heart right then and there. Now, he can't get enough of the little fellows."

"I heard that!" said Monsieur. "This is just to distract them from my feet! Thieves!" He whipped a larger-than-average chunk towards the mob, and cackled as it bounced off a confused pigeon's head.

Kirika gave him a look.

Suddenly, he felt embarrassed.

"Y'know," said Mireille, watching the clouds scudding by, "this is kind of a nice place, actually. I think I could get to like it."

Madame nodded. "The most peaceful spot in all of downtown Paris; all the hustle and bustle of the city sort of fades away when you're here. Nothing but the rustle of leaves, like waves on the ocean, the carefree clouds in the sky, and at your feet, too, if the lake's still like it is today. I remember one night long ago back in, oh, what was it, '52?"

"How should I know?" mumbled Monsieur, demonstrating proper throwing technique to his neighbour.

"Ah, yes, that was it. It was a warm summer evening. Toulouse and I were just returning home from an evening at the theatre. The park was very safe in those days, still is, actually (Constable Brun patrols around here; we passed him on the walk, remember?), so we decided to take a short-cut through it."

"Oh no, no, no!" said Monsieur, turning. "You are _not_ telling that story! I forbid it!"

"Why?" asked Kirika.

He flushed. "It…it…it's so…embarrassing…" He whipped a lump of bread at a pigeon, and missed. It cooed at him.

"It was all your idea in the first place, Toulouse," smiled Madame. "He said, 'I know this great short-cut home,' and wouldn't you know it, it just happened to take half an hour longer than our usual route! We went all around and about the whole forest area, past the gate, the statues, over the bridge (twice), around the fountain. Then we ended up in this very spot right here. The moon was shining, and glittered with the stars on the surface of the lake. And I pointed this out to Toulouse, and you know what he said? He said —"

"'All the treasures of heaven are but a glitter in your beautiful eyes,'" muttered Monsieur.

"— And lo and behold, he takes this very ring here out of his pocket, polishes it up, and asks me to marry him," said Madame, beaming.

"That night," said Kirika. "It must have been…so beautiful."

"She was," mumbled Monsieur. "Ah, I mean _it_ was, it was."

"I didn't know you were such a romantic, Monsieur Trousseau," said Mireille, with a wry grin.

"What? No, no, that was, I mean, err…" He sputtered off into silence.

"He just has an eye for these things, is all," said Madame. "Everyone says Paris is for lovers, but you have to live here to know _where_. It's no good 'fessing up just anywhere, you know; the time, the place, they have to be just right. And he was wise enough to notice how special this spot right here was. No distractions here, nothing to get in the way, nothing to hide behind. Here you can speak your heart and mind clearly, and share your true thoughts and feelings with the person you love, free of all the lies, the omissions, and the half-truths that crowd the world outside."

"Yeah, the truth," said Mireille, suddenly uncomfortable.

"It's in the air, sort of," added Monsieur. "So empty; you can fill it with yourself, with all those secrets you have to squirrel away everywhere else."

Kirika took a minute interest in the crumbs in her hand.

"It's the kind of spot where you feel you can be completely honest with yourself," added Madame. "There's no pressure to keep it in. You get all types here, really: friends, lovers…and some folks who just come by to think. Like that lady in the cape over there," she said, pointing.

"Who?!" said Mireille and Kirika, snapping to attention.

"That's funny, I thought I saw someone by that tree over there," said Madame, squinting. "Must be seeing things again."

"Shouldn't squeeze the crumbs like that, dear," said Monsieur, noticing how Kirika had tensed up. "Mush them up, and they won't go for them, y'know."

"Is everything all right, Mireille?" asked Madame. "You look pale all of a sudden?"

"It's…nothing you need to worry about, Madame," she said. "I just remembered an appointment we have across town; I think we'd better hoof it over there."

"Now? But I thought we'd have time for tea?" said Madame.

"Brought the thermos and the biscuits and everything!" added Monsieur.

"I'm sorry," said Mireille, checking a clock on a nearby lamppost, "I guess I lost track of time."

"Well, 'time flies when you're eating a bun,' and all that," said Madame. "Maybe we can get together again next week, hmm?"

"I…I don't know, Madame," she replied, scanning the trees. "There's a lot of stuff going on right now; we'll have to see, I guess."

"Well, take care then," said Madame. The two neighbours said their goodbyes and set off at a hurried pace down the path, leaving the old couple where they were.

**(Later that evening…)**

"Got to go, Mama," said Peter, hanging up the phone.

"Go?" she asked. "Where?"

"Club business," he said, throwing on a trench-coat.

"It's the middle of the night!" said Monsieur, at rest on his chaise. "And your meeting's not till Thursday! What's going on?"

"Emergency session. Very important. Just got the call now."

"I think you're putting far too much effort into that club of yours, Peter," said Madame. "You give them more time than they deserve, you know."

"It's not work; it's fun, Mama. Honest. And they've helped me out in the past; I owe it to them."

"You don't owe them your health," said Monsieur. "Sit this one out; get some rest."

"I can't, Papa."

He raised an eyebrow. "Can't? Or won't?"

Peter shot him a sideways glance, kissed his mother good-night, and hurried out the door.

"There was no call for that," Madame said, sharply.

"Oh, come on, Cosette," responded her husband. "You were thinking the exact same!"

"Some things are better left unsaid."

"_Everything_ is when you're dead."

"You make him uncomfortable, Toulouse. We have a good life, a good family; why do you always keep picking at it? Leave well enough alone."

He grumbled in half-assent, brow furrowing as he heard the expensive noise of Peter driving away in his new car. "He's in a hurry. Everyone is, nowadays. All rush, rush, rush. Can't even find the time to sit down for a tea picnic."

"They did apologize, Toulouse. You're not going to hold that against them, are you?"

"Classic Irish Breakfast, that stuff was. Nice and hot, too. And it was a real devil fitting those cups into my pockets, I tell you."

"You could have used the basket, you know."

"Bah. Too easy."

"Oh, give it up, Toulouse. You ended up with almost half the thermos to yourself, and I didn't see you complaining about that!"

"Well…"

"And those rain-clouds blew in so suddenly; they would've broken up our little picnic even if they haven't left."

"Would've been better if they stayed. Tense, they were. (See the way they cut through the trees when they left?) Bit of a break would've fixed that."

"Well, it's no use fretting over it now," said Madame, herself fretting over a great hole in the bedspread before her. "The moment's past and all; we'll just have to wait for the next one."

There was a knock at the door.

"Peter? Peter, is that you?"

No answer.

"'Course it isn't," scoffed Monsieur. "Wouldn't be back already. And there's no car."

"But who could it be at this hour?" wondered Madame.

"Answer it and find out already," huffed Monsieur.

She did.

It was a young woman, whose face passed through joy, surprise, confusion, disappointment, resignation, and subtle intimidation in the space of three seconds.

"Oh. Can I help you, dear?"

"Is…_she_…here?" asked the woman, in a soft voice.

"'She' who, my dear?"

"…………Yuumura Kirika."

Madame reversed the name in her head. "Um, no, dear, she's over there, in apartment 3," explained Madame, pointing.

The woman blinked, and unfolded a piece of paper (splattered with what looked like mud) from her cloak. She read it, checked the door, and then read it again. "Is this not the right place?"

"This is 3-A, dear," explained Madame, patiently. She snuck a peek at the paper, and then craned her neck around to the front of the door. "Oh, I see, the letter's fallen off again. Toulouse!"

"What?"

"The letter's fallen off the door again!"

"What!? Damned thing! I'll show it. Use a bloody nail this time!" He trailed off, muttering deprecations about the makers of Super-Glue™.

"Oh." The woman smiled, and bowed slightly. "Sorry for disturbing you."

"No need, we're night owls anyway," said Madame, cheerfully.

The woman turned to go. She paused in mid-turn, noticing something over Madame's shoulder. "Nice clock," she said.

"Really? It's my son Peter's," said Madame. "It's a bit of an antique, but so are we! I think he picked it up from that club of his or something."

The young woman's eyes flicked from the clock, to Madame, to Monsieur, back to the clock again, and then settled on a point somewhere above Madame's nose. "I see. Good night."

"Good night, dear."

"Kids these days," groused Monsieur, when Madame closed the door. "Watch TV all the time. Can't be bothered to read anymore."

"The sign was broken, Toulouse," said Madame, taking her usual seat. "And whomever wrote that note of hers had some terrible handwriting."

"Bah, she could've seen it if she'd looked. Paint's a different colour, for one. Too much Internet. Dulls the mind. Read," he said, with a nod to his paper, "and she'd pick up on details like that."

She thought back to her brief encounter as she took up her needles. "Purple hair," she muttered to herself. "What is the world coming to?"


	9. Family

**Chapter 9: Family**

Monsieur Trousseau trundled home, a bag of the finest selections from Molbe's House of Drink under his arm, tightly rolled and taped shut to protect their aromas from the early summer breeze. He stepped around a well-polished Mercedes-Benz, looking upon it with disapproval, and under a pair of workmen installing the apartment's new sign over the front door. He tipped his hat to Monsieur Ripley (a talented young man renting Monsieur Golgo's old flat), and turned towards the long climb up to his home. "Really should look into an elevator one of these days," he thought.

"Oi, Papa!"

"Mm? Peter?"

His son was leaning out of the door of his first floor office, cradling a phone on his shoulder. "Come here for a minute, eh?" He kicked off the door-frame and slid back behind his desk.

Monsieur shrugged, and hobbled over to what was (last year) his place of work.

His son had changed things considerably when he moved in. Gone were the precarious piles of bills, receipts, and invoices slopped on top of every available chair, table, and shelf, replaced by three large, immaculate filing cabinets. The old desk was still there, dents, scrapes and all, but now he could actually see its surface. One of those new computers was on it; the typewriter it had displaced was in a place of dignified obsolescence by the far wall. The pitted oak walls were now smooth and lacquered; family photos dotted them, including a recent colour picture of Marien and her family. Peter had thrown open the far window and positioned an electric fan by it.

"Yes, yes, I'll see to it," said Peter, into the phone. "Send your man by tomorrow for the quote, okay?" He hung up. "Back from Molbe's Papa?"

"Mm," he nodded. He waved his cane-hand at the receiver. "What was…?"

"Oh, that was this fellow I know from Otis. I asked him to come by, take a look at the place, and see if we could build an elevator in by the old fire escape or something. It's just preliminary," he added, seeing his father's curious expression, "nothing definite. But it would be great for the tenants who have bicycles. And for Mama, of course."

"Huh. Good, good thinking."

Peter snapped his fingers. "Right. I almost forgot." He motioned his father over to a desk by the window. There was a large package on it. "It just came in the mail."

"From Delft? The Netherlands?" he said, reading the return address. "What's this?"

"Well," said Peter, sheepishly, "I was going to save it for dinner tonight, but…ah, what the heck. Open it!"

Eyeing the package suspiciously, he meticulously removed the wrapping paper, opened the cardboard box, dug through several layers of packing material, and stopped.

Peter had a huge grin on his face. "Well?"

Carefully, as if he were handling solid light, he lifted one of the objects out of the box using both hands.

It was, for lack of a better word, perfect. The china, milk-white with a tasteful, yet intricate, sky-blue pattern, was light as air, and so thin he could practically see through it. A ring of 24-carat gold ran round the rim of the tea cup, and flowed over its long, fluted handle, which was moulded in the shape of a swan. And exactly the size and shape he liked, too.

"There's a little moustache catcher you can fit over the rim somewhere in there, too," said Peter. "I asked them to throw it in."

Monsieur looked over the other twelve pieces of the tea set, carefully.

"So? Do you like it?"

He set the cup back in its place, replaced the packaging, and closed the lid. "Send it back," he said, softly.

"What?" said Peter. "Papa, this is special order!"

"And it cost a fortune, right?"

"Well, sort of, yes, but —"

"So send it back," he said.

"I, I thought you'd like it?"

"Too rich for my blood," he muttered. "And for yours."

"Oh, don't start that again, Papa," moaned his son. "It's like I said to Mama, money is not a problem nowadays."

"Don't try that with me, young man!" snapped Monsieur.

His son stepped back. "Start what, Papa?"

The old man straightened up. "I ran this apartment for some fifty years," he began. "I know every crack in the walls, every leak in the roof, every loose board in the floor. I know about the leak in 3-B and the broken radiator in 1-B. And I know how the window in 2-A sticks when the humidity goes up. I know all this because they've been like that for some ten years, son. I've always meant to fix them all, spruce this place up, but I never had the money to do it. Last year, I asked you to come here and help. Today, all those things are fixed."

"You know, Papa," said Peter, "most people just say, 'Thank you.'"

"I'm not finished," he said. "And neither are you, apparently. You did all that, and more. Satellite television. A new car. A new sign. A second hot water heater. An elevator. And now this?" he said, meaning the package.

"I looked over the books, Papa; there was money everywhere, if you knew where to look for it."

"Don't insult my intelligence!" He shuffled over to the desk, and rested his hand over the latest sheaf of rent deposits. "I know exactly how much we make and how much we spend. And for thirty years those numbers were exactly the same. We never made much, but we never went into the red, either." He looked his son straight in the eye. "Peter, there is simply no way you can afford all of this."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Papa…"

"What did you do, eh? Take out a loan? Borrow from a friend? You're not spending your retirement fund from your Agency job, are you?"

"What? No, no, it's not that, not that at all…"

"Then what is it, eh? I've always lived within my means, Peter, and I've tried to teach you the same."

"Where are you going with all this, father?" said Peter.

"Slow _down_, Peter. No need to change the world overnight. You've got a good 10, 15 years in this place yet." His son sighed audibly at this remark. "But if you keep this up you'll burn right out. Why rush things?"

"'Rush things'? Papa, this stuff should've happened ten years ago! This isn't forging ahead; it's catching up!" He slid onto the desk. "It's why you asked me to come here, isn't it? To take care of things? Fix the place up? Well, that's what I'm doing."

"So much to keep track of," mumbled his father in reply. "I worry you might —"

"Well, don't. Whatever happens here, I'll take care of it. I know what I'm doing; I've got things under control. Just trust me on this, okay?"

"Trust?" He shuffled towards the door. "How can I? You never tell me what's going on anymore; have to find out from the neighbours."

"I _thought_," said Peter, a slight edge to his voice, " that since you'd retired you wouldn't need to know everything that happens down here."

"Doesn't mean I don't want to. And then there's you. In and out at all hours. Come home bleary-eyed in the middle of the morning. Even smoke now, never smoked before, now I smell it on your breath all the time. All those whispered talks you have with those men in your club…"

"It _is_ sort of a secret club, Papa."

"So secret you can't even tell your own father? Your mother, she stays up every night until you get in the door. You know why? Because she thinks that one night you might not come home."

"Papa…"

"I read the news; I know what it's like out there. Crimes, murders, betrayals everywhere. It's not safe out there. But now you're back in the thick of it again, back at the Department."

"Because I want to _do_ something about it, Papa," said Peter. "Because I can make a difference there, really change things."

"And you can't here?"

Peter sighed. "Papa, you and Mama won't even let me move you down to the first floor."

"We've lived up there 50 years, son," replied Monsieur. "It's home. And that should never change."

"The _world_ does, Papa," said Peter. "It's human nature to change things, to plan, set events in motion. And if you're not ready to move with them, then you're better off getting out of the way."

Monsieur shot him a glare. "Are you implying something, son?"

He returned the glare, sighed, and rubbed his forehead. "I'll send the tea set back tomorrow."

Monsieur grunted, grabbed his bag of groceries, and headed for the stairs.

"Happy birthday, Father," said Peter, to his back.


	10. A Chance Encounter

**Chapter 10: A Chance Encounter**

Monsieur Trousseau lurched his way down Rue De l'Echaude, cane tap-tapping upon the cobbles as he did.

Refreshing change of pace, it was. How long had it been since he'd walked down this way? Too long, too long. Too many weeks and months of up Place du D'Allaire, left at the newsstand, cross the street to the park…time for a change. He had been too heavy and glum as of late, too worried about the apartment, about Peter, Cosette, and Marien. It was time to leave his the troubles and worries behind, find a new path. He should come this way more often. He would, in fact.

At least, such were his thoughts. In truth, his feet had turned right when they usually turned left, and he was so pleasantly surprised by their bout of ingenuity that he'd turned things over to them for awhile. And here he was, on a pleasantly hot summer day, with the wind in his hair ("What's left of it," he thought, ruefully), walking through the streets of his youth.

Ah yes, those summer days…the parades, the cheering crowds, the joy of it all…hey! There was the very tree he clambered up to get a better look at the passing heroes. He gave one of its old branches an experimental tug. Strong as ever.

"Hm," he thought, "should bring Cosette by here."

And his thoughts drifted back to the fetching young blonde he'd spotted in the crowd so long ago, how he'd pulled her up to his perch, and how they'd cheered, how they'd laughed, laughed all through the day and into the night, the first quiet night Paris had seen in so very long, that night when he realized that, at last, the guns were silent, and would never sound aga —

A sharp noise made him twitch.

"Odd noise," he thought. "Bit like a racquetball."

Three others followed in rapid succession. Confused, he looked about for their source. Inevitably, his ears lead him downward.

The sounds were clearly coming from an old, rusted iron grate in the curb. The old storm drains? Restoration work, maybe? He knelt down, bracing himself against the tree, for a better listen.

As suddenly as they began, the noises stopped.

"Huh," he said.

Slowly, he creaked to his feet, and set off down the road at a slower, more measured pace. "The tunnels," he thought. "Remember them. Remember the damp. The cold. The running. Back in July, too, I think. Funny. Didn't think I was so close." Lost in thought, he paid no heed to his feet as they led him around another street corner.

"Oof!" He stumbled as his foot caught the corner of a lamppost. He grabbed it, and leaned hard on his stick, pausing to catch his breath.

At this point, he noticed he was looking at another aged storm drain. And it, too, was making noise.

It was faint. Sounded distant. Sort of a rhythmic, scraping sound?

Again he put his ear close to the ground, heedless of the bewildered look some passing teenagers gave him.

There were voices, too, made hollow and chthonic by the echoes.

"No, not like that. Keep it smooth and level. Nice, even strokes."

"Do we have to do this?"

"We should cover our tracks. That, and we're running out of walls."

Monsieur Trousseau rose to his feet, puzzled. "Running out of…?" he mouthed. He shook his head. "Probably sanitation workers," he thought. He wandered slowly down the walk, watching his cane tap the cobblestones one by one, pondering the meaning of this inexplicable phenomenon. Eventually, his feet walked him past an alley.

His ears pricked up at the distinctive sound of a manhole cover scraping against concrete. A distant, yet hauntingly familiar voice, said, "There we go."

He froze. His feet hobbled him into the alley, over the fallen boxes, around the corner —

A young woman gasped. So did he.

Before him was a young blonde-haired woman apparently helping an Oriental-looking girl climb out of an open manhole cover. He and they stared at each other blankly for several seconds, making an interesting tableau.

"Miss Bouquet?" said Monsieur. "Miss Yuumura?"

The former blinked a bit as the latter climbed onto solid ground. "Uhhhhhh…yes?" she said.

"What in God's name were you doing down there?" he asked, in disbelief.

Panic claimed her. "Ah…err…uh…I…that is, we…were…um…"

"Spelunking."

"Eh?" said Monsieur.

"Eh?" said Mireille.

"Spelunking," repeated Kirika, in all seriousness. "Cave exploration. You told me about the old tunnels once. I wanted to see them. She came with me," she said, with a nod to her roommate.

At this point, Monsieur Trousseau noticed something hanging off her arm. "And you went with _that_?"

Kirika looked at the bucket of spackle looped over her arm. A recently used trowel was sticking out of it. "Um…" she explained.

"Well, she mentioned them," said Mireille, jumping in, "and I remembered reports on how they were falling apart, and she thought we might fix some of the dents in the wall or something, so…"

He considered this, and chuckled. "You two are something else," he said, shaking his head.

"Yeah," she said, with a nervous laugh.

"Ah, but you shouldn't be slinking around in the dark on a day like this!" he cried. "Go to the park! Visit the birds by the lake! Plenty of water and light, that's what's right for young sprouts like you!"

"'Water and light,'" said Kirika, looking a bit zoned out.

"You know, that's a great idea," said Mireille. "Let's go do that, Kirika?"

"Eh?" she said.

"Let's _go_," she replied, looking a little tense. "Uh, enjoy your walk, Monsieur Trousseau."

"Pretty entertaining so far," he replied, as they scurried a little too quickly around the corner. "Strange people," he thought, as he turned to leave. "But we all have our secrets, I suppose."

His feet slowed after a few paces, and then stopped. He looked back over his shoulder, thoughtfully.

The open manhole yawned at him.


	11. Trust

**Chapter 11: Trust**

"Thank you again, my dear; I always love company on the walk home."

"Welcome."

Mireille, carrying a sack of groceries, walked down the riverside with her neighbour, reflecting upon the water's surface.

"Too bad Miss Yuumura wasn't with you, as well; the more friends, the merrier, I always say."

Paper crinkled as her hands clutched at the sack. Her eyes narrowed, as if determined to plumb the river's dark depths.

"I haven't seen you in nearly a month, I think?"

"A month?" she said, taken aback.

"At least. And you left so suddenly, dear. We all missed you terribly, the Duceppes especially…'We'd prefer it if she'd stayed where we could see her,' was the way they put it, I think; they've such a strange way with words, don't they?"

"Only a month," said Mireille, to herself. "Feels like a lifetime."

"I tried to track you down for Toulouse's birthday," said Madame, not listening, "It's usually just the two of us, but, well, we thought, 'Why not?' But you were always out and about town, and we never did quite run into you. I do remember spotting you at _Julie Julie,_ but, well, you seemed to be getting along so well with your Uncle that I —"

Mireille snatched her arm and spun her around so they were face-to-face. "_How did you know that?_" she hissed.

"Miss Bouquet!?" she exclaimed.

Her gaze was murderous, her grip steel. "I never told you about my uncle. How did you know we met? _How?_" she shouted.

"H-h-he came by the apartment, said he was your uncle, wanted your address!" said Madame, shaking. "And _Julie Julie_ doesn't take phone reservations! Toulouse, he likes the soup there, and, and I saw you two in the corner!" She quailed, unable to meet her neighbour's fearsome eyes. "Please, you're hurting me!"

The words hung in the air. A few passer-bys looked on, curiously.

Three ragged breaths passed.

Slowly, like the blood from her face, the malice drained away, displaced by horror and dread. Her hand released its grip, and then crept towards her lips.

"Oh…god…I, I'm so…god, what have I…" She covered her face in both hands, letting her burden of goods fall away. She sank to the ground, her back against the railing.

Madame cradled her arm, her fear of her neighbour's burst of anger precariously balanced by her confusion on how quickly it had passed. Cautiously, she reached for the sack.

Seeing no reaction, she carefully dragged it towards her.

Slowly, knowing that she was treading on thin ice, she slinked over to her distraught neighbour's side, and settled earthward. "Miss Bouquet?" she whispered.

Was that a sob?

"Mireille? What is it, dear? What troubles you?"

It was not the cold, empty dark around her that caused her to tremble, but that which lay within.

_She cursed, aimed, and fired at the distant circle on the wall. Repeatedly._

_She didn't even have to look; the ricochets told her what she already knew. _

_Complete misses, all of them._

_The striker clicked uselessly. "Damn!" She let the gun fall, and buried a fist into the implacable stone of the sewer wall. "Damn damn damn damn damn!" _

"_Stupid," she thought. "It's all so stupid. All this time, my worst enemy, my nemesis, the blackness that surrounds me, surrounds everything…I was a part of it. My parents…they died to save me from it, and they too were part of it. Even Claude, _Claude_, for heaven's sake." She wiped what she told herself was some dust from her eyes. _

"_And the one in the middle of it all, the one who swept me back to the past, like the hands on that damned watch of hers…the…the only one who'd understand…I sent her away. I told her to go…" She remembered her tears, how the trigger had trembled against her skin. _

"_I'm…alone again. All alone, in the dark."_

_A single drop plummeted from above, and disappeared into the black waters. _

"Nothing," she whispered, her throat tight. "It's nothing. Nothing at all."

A slow sigh escaped Madame's lips. "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. 'Nothing,' is it?" She sat down next to her. "That's the most complicated thing of all."

A dark ship passed over the horizon; an old dingy followed in its wake. Madame twirled two loose threads from her shawl between her fingers, just to pass the time.

"It's all messed up…" said a whisper.

Madame carried on, as before.

"It's all gone wrong." Mireille took a ragged breath. "You…you think you know how the world works. You think you know yourself. It's so simple: there's you, there's the job, and there's everybody else. You do the job, and the rest sorts itself out. And then…and then someone drops a heap of baggage at your feet, and expects you to do something about it. And whoosh! Down the rabbit hole you go, and heaven help you if you ever reach the bottom."

Madame settled into a more comfortable position.

She sighed. "We were…close. Very close, my Uncle Claude and I. Uncle? No…more than an uncle. A…big brother. A guide. A friend." Mireille took a breath. "He was always around the house when I was young. My father, he was always busy at something, and my brother was too young to do much of anything, so we'd hang out together all the time. We'd walk, we'd talk, ride horses over the fields. When we moved to Paris, away from home, I was so alone, so scared. He never left my side. He, he even read stories to me when I couldn't sleep. So many stories…he had this huge library in the house; I'd raid it every chance I'd get. And…and there was this lake, just north of Paris. Whenever I was feeling down, we'd go there for a visit." She looked to the heavens. "So quiet, so warm, so green there. The light, like rain, falling in sparkling motes through the branches. The soft grass, the cool, clear lake…you could see right to the bottom if the sun was right."

"When he showed up in town, after so long, I couldn't believe it. We got to talking, remembered all the good times…heh, he even said we might head up to the lake again. And then…" She laughed, sadly. "So much can change in an instant. One word, one look, and the mask falls away, and you're never prepared for what's beneath it."

"Something happened, then?" said Madame.

A few blossoms fluttered down from a hanging planter.

"He, ah, promised we'd go to the lake. But he…had to leave town suddenly. So, ah, we…didn't."

"Oh," said Madame, shaping the word carefully. "That was all, then?"

"…Yeah."

She nodded, knowingly. "Well, maybe next time he comes to town, then?"

"…Yeah," she whispered. "Next time…"

"A broken promise…it means a lot, doesn't it?"

"You think you know your friends," she said, passionately, "your family, your self…and then, then you don't. And there's no one you can turn to, no one you can trust. How can you, after something like that? How can you trust anyone anymore?"

"Oh, Mireille…" Madame reached out to lay a hand on her shoulder.

"How can she trust me?" she thought.

She gently pushed the hand away. Madame let her, surprised.

"Madame?"

"Yes?"

"Can you make it back on your own?"

"Eh? Why, yes, yes I can. Toulouse fixed the wheel on the cart; of course, now the other one's acting up, but —"

She turned away from her. "I…I'd like some time alone."

Madame nodded, and loaded up her cart. She took three steps away, intentionally dragging her feet, as if expecting something.

Her neighbour rubbed her forehead.

Madame waited. "Um…"

"_Alone_," said Mireille. "Please."

"Ah. Right. Alone. Of course." She made to leave. "Ah, I guess I'll see you and Miss Yuumura in the park this weekend?"

She gave a full-body sigh, one that started at the heart and worked its way down, until every last life giving breath had passed, leaving only a hollow shell. "I…don't think so, Madame."

"Next weekend, then?" Hope radiated from her every feature.

"…I can't…anymore…"

A chill wind blew between the two of them.

Madame took one, last, look at her, that sad shape huddled by the riverside, turned, and walked away.


	12. Responsibility

**Chapter 12: Responsibility**

The last step creaked. Three legs stumped onto the ground floor.

Monsieur Trousseau flexed his cane hand. He shuffled down the hall, past where, just yesterday, the elevator man had painted several marks on the wall, presumably so he could knock a great damn hole in it later. "Change is good," he muttered in disgust.

The back door edged open; the morning light poured in, followed by an unsteady, middle-aged man in an overcoat. He blinked bleary-eyed at the old man.

"Well," said Monsieur, "look who finally decided to come home."

"Papa? Oh gods…" Peter rubbed his eyes. They were bloodshot.

"Yeah, 'Papa,'" said Monsieur, stumping towards him. "You know, your mother's husband? You remember her, right? Forget? She's upstairs. Can't miss her. She's the one who's been bawling her eyes out all night when you didn't come home!"

"I don't have time for this," moaned Peter, brushing past him.

"Then _make_ time, you swine!" shouted his father. "What the hell were you thinking? Didn't call, didn't warn us you'd be late! And now you show up at ten in the morning, looking like hell itself! Answer me!"

"I'm a grown man, father," he said, with equal parts petulance and irritation. "I can do as I please. The meeting ran late; that's all."

"You have responsibilities, son. An apartment to run, parents to take care of."

"I _know_, father," he said, opening the door to his office. "You never let me forget," he added, to himself. He stooped to pick up a package by the door.

"Well, start living up to them, then! Start being responsible!"

He whirled on him. "_Responsible?_ If I wasn't here running this old wreck I'd be off ensuring the safety of the _entire nation_, father!"

"And nations start at home," Monsieur shot back.

His son smouldered, and glared at him over the desk. "There's more going on in this world than you know, father, and people like me are all that stand between it and you."

"I know that," said Monsieur. "Your mother knows that. That's why we want you _here_, instead. You don't have to be out there, Peter!"

"Yes, I do. I took an oath, father." He tore open the package.

Something fell out onto the desk, obscured from Monsieur's view by a stack of papers.

The rest of the package followed shortly thereafter. It landed with a heavy, metallic 'clunk.'

"Well," continued Monsieur, "then maybe you should think about whom you owe more to: your country, or your family."

His son dropped into the chair, limp. Something in his face worked its way through the storm of rage surrounding Monsieur.

"What?" he asked, in irritation.

His son reached out with one shaking hand for one of the things on the desk, touched it, and then recoiled from it, as if it had stung him. He shoved it into the package.

"What?" he said, concerned. He set aside the cane and shuffled over to his son. "What is it, son?" He looked at the desk.

There, next to the crumpled package, was a white opera mask.

He eyeballed it, strangely. "Someone's little joke?" he hazarded.

"No," whispered his son. "No, no joke. This, this is it, this is _real_…"

"Peter? You're all pale; what is it? What's wrong?"

In one motion, he leapt to his feet, swept mask and package into his coat, and stormed out the door. Monsieur snatched up his cane and hobbled after him, hearing his feet rattling the floorboards. "Peter?" he called. "What are you doing?"

His son paused halfway through the front door. "Being responsible," he rasped.

"What in blazes does that mean?"

"I've got things under control," he said, half to himself. "Nothing to worry about. Just trust me, okay?"

"Son?"

He clutched at the doorframe. "Whatever happens, I'll take care of it, okay? That's what I do; I take care of things. I'll be back in time for dinner."

Monsieur reached out for him. "Peter, what's going on? Tell me, please!"

"You _don't_ need to know, father!"

He drew back at the force of his voice.

"Just…just carry on as before," said Peter. "Carry on, as if nothing's ever changed. Like you always do." He stepped through the threshold.

"Peter, wait!"

The door slammed shut behind him.

Monsieur leaned on his cane and the nearby wall, the weight of years suddenly heavy upon him.

**(Later that evening…)**

"Dinner is served."

The great, age-blackened cast-iron pot clunked onto the table. Madame swept off the lid with a flourish, revealing a steaming, bubbling mess of onion, fish, and dismembered squid. She ladled out a generous portion to everyone at the table. "Eat up, now."

Peter scooped up a spoonful, and grimaced at it. A bit of tentacle went plop into the bowl. Monsieur Trousseau mirrored his every action, glaring at him from across the kitchen table.

"So," said Madame, clasping her hands together, "how was everyone's day?"

"Busy," said Peter, looking at the table.

"Dull," said Monsieur, still locked on his son.

"Oh."

Madame glanced briefly at either side of the table, and then helped herself to the chaudrée. Two spoons moved mechanically from bowl to lips, dribbling.

"I ran into Madame Duceppe in the hallway this afternoon," said Madame. "She's just back from Taiwan, apparently."

"In and out at all hours, they are," said Monsieur. "Never know where they're going. Or when they're coming back."

"Yes, that they are," said Madame, not certain as to his point.

Peter stabbed at a disagreeable lump of fish.

"How is it then?" she asked. "I added more squid, since I know you two like it so much."

"Good," muttered Peter, spoon held in mid-air.

"Mm," said Monsieur, doing likewise.

The pot simmered, slowly.

Madame clasped her hands together, making a mental note to check out that frayed section in the middle of the tablecloth. She cleared her throat, nervously. "So…nice weather we're having?" She forced a smile.

Peter set down his spoon, carefully, and pushed his chair back from the table.

"You can't be finished already," said Madame.

"Mama," he said, "I've decided to go back."

"'Back'? Back where?"

"To the Department."

There was a clink as Monsieur draped his spoon on the edge of his bowl.

"But I thought you already had," said Madame, not following.

"Full-time, I mean," said Peter.

"Full-time?"

Monsieur glared across the table.

"They…there's this opening in the foreign branch," said Peter. "Good pay, great hours. It…it's a bit out of town."

Madame raised an eyebrow. "Where, exactly?"

"Canada."

"Canada?!" Madame dropped her spoon with a clatter. "But, but that's the other side of the world!" she cried. "You'll be miles away from us! We, we'll be miles away from you! We — you'll be lonely!"

"I'll be fine, Mama."

"And what about the apartment?" continued Madame. "You can't take care of things from across the water, can you?"

Peter sighed. "You'll be well taken care of."

"How?" asked Monsieur.

Peter paused, drew a few pamphlets out of his pocket, and passed a copy to each of his parents.

Madame read her copy in disbelief. "A…retirement home?"

"It's a very nice place. Open gardens, a spa, world-class staff, right…by…the…river…" The words withered on his lips under his father's hellish stare.

Monsieur slapped the pamphlet on the table. "What the hell is this?" he asked.

"What the hell is this?' Peter slammed the package onto the desk.

Inspector Vélohr Verloc of the National Police looked up from his paperwork. "You shouldn't have come here," he said.

"Answer the question!"

"Keep your voice down, you idiot! Do you realise where you are?" Swiftly, he closed the office blinds, locked the door, disconnected the phone, and returned to his place behind the desk. "Now, what do you want?"

"You said it would never come to this," said Peter, his voice shaking. "You said it'd never happen, not in million years."

"I said it was unlikely," he replied, calmly. "That was all."

"Damn it, Vélohr, I'm an accountant, not a hitman! I don't do this kind of thing!"

"Monsieur Violet works for a bank; I don't hear him complaining."

"What right do you have to do this to me, huh?"

"Me?" He looked up, suddenly. Peter edged back. "I had nothing to do with this, and you know it. I got the package in the mail just the same as you: one call to arms, and one weapon to answer it with. Tomorrow I'll get the details. And the day after tomorrow, God willing, this whole affair will be over. We are not the ones who send out the call; we are the ones who answer it."

Peter shook his head, emphatically. "No, you are. Not me. I do the books, that's all."

"Oh, come off it, Peter," snapped Verloc, " that's garbage and you know it! You've been a part of every operation in the last twenty years. You come on-site for the clean-ups, help with the sterilization. Heck, you even fill out the death certificates!"

"It's not like I had a choice in the matter," he said.

"Choice? You made your choice when you took that oath all those many years ago. That choice still stands today, Peter. This," he said, with a nod to the package, "is just a reminder of that fact."

"I know that, don't you think I know that? Don't you think I remember that every time I come home at three in the morning?"

"It's a hard life, Peter," said Verloc, "but someone has to live it; we are merely those who step up to the challenge."

"Well, not me. Not anymore, Verloc."

The inspector studied him, carefully. "What is it, exactly, that you want?"

"A way out," said Peter.

"What?" said Madame.

"He wants out, Cosette," said Monsieur. "Wants out of our lives."

"No, no, it's not that," said his son.

"Then what is it, eh? Move across the world, shut away your parents, sell your home?"

"It's not that either," he replied. "Please, Mama, you'd like it there, really!"

"But, but…this is your home, Peter." She clutched the tablecloth. "Our home. And this is all so sudden. What brought this all up?"

"Something this afternoon, wasn't it?" said Monsieur. "Knew it. Way you rushed out and all."

Peter sighed. "I just think it's time for a change. That's all."

"Well, I don't."

He blinked. "Mama?"

"I'm happy here, Peter," said Madame. "So is your father. I…I'd hope you'd be too."

"Ma…"

"The house…it's feels so very empty nowadays, what with just the two of us and all. Felix passed on almost twenty years ago, now; your Aunt Gertrude left us in '94; and cousins Brandford and Brianne across the street…they died just last summer. And Toulouse and I…" She smiled, sadly. "Well, we know it won't be long now."

"Mama, no, don't start this…"

"It's true," she said. "It's why we asked you to come home, Peter: so we could be a family again, one last time. Please, won't you stay?" She reached for his hand.

"I want out," said Peter. "Out of Les Chevaliers. Out of the money, the cover-ups, the, the blood, all of it."

Verloc exhaled, slowly. "I thought so."

"Well?"

He spread his arms. "You would cast this aside?" he said. "Ignore the call?"

He nodded, once.

" After all they've done, all we've done for you?"

"I…I know I owe a lot to the group…"

"When you wanted into the Department," said Verloc, "you came to us. And we delivered. We pulled the strings, got you in. When you needed tenants for your parent's apartment, again, you came to us. And we delivered. And when you need all that money for those renovations of yours, it was our members who pulled the strings to get it."

"I know, Vélohr, I know."

"No, I don't think you do, Peter. I don't think you realize what it is you're asking of me." He exhaled. "Peter, you know how the higher-ups are; you know they always call in their debts, right?" Peter nodded. Verloc leaned forward in his chair. "Peter, if you don't do this, they'll take back everything, you understand? Everything."

"I…I can pay it back," said Peter. "All of it. That's no problem."

"How are you parents, Peter?"

A bolt of ice pierced his heart, and chilled his words. "Leave…them…out of this!"

"I want to!" said Verloc. "You don't think I'm fond of them, too? So is half the executive. But Peter, if you leave like this, that order will come down, and we will carry it out."

"You heartless bastard!" he spat, shaking.

"Heartless? You're not the only one with loved ones to worry about, Peter. And you're no saint, either. I've seen you work. Bribes, blood money, false visas, death certificates, extortion letters...you write and sign them all without even blinking an eye."

"You're no better!" he shot back.

"And I don't claim to be! None of us do. We're all sinners, right through to our black hearts."

He leaned back. " Listen, Peter. You know the way the world is. You know what people are like, what their true face is, stripped of all the fancy paints and oils that make up civilization. You've seen it. You've seen it every day you were on patrol as a beat officer, in every report you read at the Department, every second on the news. You call me 'heartless'? A 'bastard'? Everyone is, Peter."

"We're human beings: we cheat, hurt, betray, deceive and murder each other each and every day. Some call these acts sin; you and I know it as life. And it's a nasty, brutish, short business, Peter. Left on our own, every one of would tear each other apart. And we are alone. God is silent, Peter. He does not weep for us, and will not reach down to save us, no, not again. So it falls to us, Peter. It falls to we few who have the wisdom to see ourselves for what we really are, and the courage to do something about it."

"And what do we do, then, huh?" asked Peter. "Extortion, cover-ups…what, do these count as community service or something? Well?"

"We do what we must so that others don't have to," said Verloc. "How would the people out there live with themselves if they knew what we did, eh? How would your parents? How would my eight-year old daughter? It's better this way, Peter," he continued, coming around to his side of the desk. "Better to keep it secret. They wouldn't understand why we do what we do."

"I don't," said Peter. "Maybe I did once, but not anymore."

Verloc sighed. "Peter, did I ever tell you how I got involved in all this?"

He indicated he did not.

"The Tremsheld case, back in '76, remember that? Serial homicide. Twenty victims, all young women between the ages of 16 and 23. I spent three years tracking him, Peter. The investigation spanned two countries, took hundreds of men, thousands of man-hours. And then, one day, at last, I drew the net tight, and I had him. I had him cornered in a Paris subway. I had the cuffs on him, had the keys to his cell in my hand. And then, after one month, after one mistrial, after one stupid juror tried to make himself famous by talking to the press, he was free."

"We all knew he was guilty, and we all knew what would happen if he was set free, probation or not. He'd scurry away, off to some far corner of the world… and the body count would rise again. But no, 'justice' had to be served. We could not hold him." He grimaced. "I was furious. All that effort, all that hard work, and he had escaped! I had the full force of the law, civilization's greatest achievement, behind me, and, in the end, it was worth less than the paper it was written on."

"Then, soon after Tremsheld escaped, a man in the department came to me. He told me about the law, not the petty rules we play with in the streets, the government, and the courts, but The Law, the one no one talks about. He was talking about Justice, Peter, that ideal we both swore to uphold when we joined this police force. He was talking about the belief, the hope, the dream we all secretly share: that, in the end, we all get what we deserve. The innocent are rewarded, the guilty, punished."

"The laws we make, they are the tools we use to shape the world into this dream. But they are crude, clumsy things, that often go astray, and they try to deny the true nature of mankind. We can have law, we can have civilization, and justice, but we need finer, sharper instruments in order to find them. And in a world where the innocent are punished and the guilty walk free, well, sometimes we have to step beyond a lesser law to enforce a greater one."

Peter blinked. "You mean…?"

"I mean he put a gun in my hand, my quarry before me, and Justice. Was. Served."

He stared him, stunned. "You…you killed…?"

"If I hadn't, he would have killed ten, maybe fifty more before he was stopped. The world would have lived in fear, Peter. It's not pretty, what we do. But it is necessary."

"But why me?" asked Peter. "Why does it have to be me?"

"Because you have what it takes, Peter. You've got the courage to look at the world, to see it as it really is, and not back down." He laid a friendly arm over his shoulder. "The people of the world need us, Peter. They need us to save them from themselves."

Peter wavered. "I…"

"Look, Peter. I might not know what we'll be up against tomorrow. I don't know what will be in that envelope on my desk next morning. But I've a pretty good guess." He picked up a folder from his desk. "Remember Brannua?" Peter nodded. "These are the forensic results." He picked up several other files. "This is the D'Estaing case. This is Dux. The Feyder incident. LeGrande. The same two guns, Peter, a Walther and a Beretta, were used in each incident! And the people using them have never been caught." He showed him the evidence. "These people are murderers, Peter, heartless, cruel, and ruthlessly efficient. There's no telling where or when they'll strike next. They've already killed almost a hundred police officers and loyal members of our organization. Who knows whose lives they will claim next?"

Peter stiffened.

"You've always wanted to serve your country, right? To live up to what your father did before you?"

He nodded.

"Then do this, Peter. Answer the call. Help us stop these killers before it's too late. Before they claim someone you love." He leaned in close to him. "Make him proud, Peter."

He withdrew it. "I only want what's best for you two," he said.

"What's best is for us to be here, together," pleaded Madame.

He looked uncomfortable. "I leave tomorrow."

"What!" Monsieur exploded.

"It, it has to be this way, Papa!" said Peter. "Look, I've three tickets here, you can come with me! It'll be like a vacation! What do you think?"

Monsieur snatched the tickets from his hand. "This is what I think!" He tore them in half.

"No!" cried his son.

"Who do you think you are, eh?" growled Monsieur. "Springing all this on us all at once? Leaving your parents, your mother, your own father in the lurch? Without an explanation? Well, you're not getting away with it." He stood suddenly, his chair squeaking on the linoleum. "What's going on here, young man? The whole story!"

"Toulouse," said Madame, "calm down, please!"

"No, Cosette." He glared at his son, who had his face in his hands. "I've had enough of his secrets already. Time for answers."

"Selfish," whispered Peter.

"Hm? Speak up, boy."

"You're both so…so selfish!"

"Peter?" said Madame.

"Every time, my whole life, it's always been like this," he said, choking back anger. "Always. I always had to be there for you. I had to be the loyal one, 'the good son,' the one who didn't move away, didn't abandon his family." He looked up, sharply. "And I was. Oh, how I was. I did everything you asked of me. I stayed in Paris. My whole life, I stayed. Then, when I joined the police, and you, you, Mama, would come to me every night and worry about whether I'd be safe…I quit. I took a desk job. I did it for you, Mama."

"Oh, Peter…"

"Then," he continued, "I went to the Department."

"Which you never should have done!" said Monsieur. "Too dangerous! Want to get yourself killed?"

"I wanted to make you proud of me, father!"

Monsieur drew back, surprised.

Peter struggled to get his breathing under control. "And I listened to you. Again, father. I took the desk job. I pushed papers for ten years, Papa! I let promotion after promotion pass me by, all because of you two! And now, now you want me to do it again. Because you two won't let me live my life!"

"I don't want you to throw it away, is all!" shouted Monsieur.

"It's my life, Papa!" responded Peter. "Mine to do with as I please!"

"And what about ours, eh? You think you can storm off to another continent with barely a word and it won't hurt us?"

"I'm trying to protect you, father!"

"Protect us? From what? From you, and your secrets? Three damn cops bunking in the floors below us, Peter; plenty of protection there!"

"You don't know what's going on here, father!"

"And you won't tell me!"

"Because you can't. Know. Damn it!"

"Stop this!" cried Madame. "Both of you! No more fighting!"

"I knew it!" said Monsieur. "You're a crook and a criminal! You're in some bad business, and now you don't want me to find out about it! I can't believe I trusted you! I can't believe I trusted this apartment to you!"

"Trusted!? Forced! I never wanted to come back here! And I wish I never did! I wish I'd let you and your stupid home rot, along with the rest of history!"

"How dare you?" hissed Monsieur.

"You want to know what your problem is?" ranted Peter. "You want to know why Marien can't stand to look at you, even after all this time? Here's why! You're a coward! You. Are. A. Coward. Father!"

"Stop this Peter, please!" begged Madame. Monsieur trembled with rage.

"You both are! You've shut yourselves away up here all your lives, never moved, and you've never tried anything new. You keep telling yourself that you know how the world works, that it's the same it's always been, 'cause you're too afraid to change with it! But you, father, you're the worst! Do you know how I felt as a child every summer? How ashamed I was to be the only kid on the block who couldn't point to someone in the parades and say, 'That's my dad. He fought in the war, and he is proud of it?'" He shook his head, and laughed, bitterly. "Now, after all these years, I finally understand why. It's because you were ashamed of yourself, Father. Ashamed at the weak, frightened thing you had become."

"Enough!" Madame slammed her hands on the table, causing its other occupants to jump. She pointed a shaking finger at her son. "Get out!"

His rage was dispelled by surprise. "Mama?" said Peter.

"I thought we could be a family again," she said, her voice trembling. "I thought we could be together again, sharing dinner around the table, talking, like old times. I was wrong."

Peter looked at his mother, aquiver with rage, and then at his father, who looked on the verge of tears. "Mama…"

"Sleep in your office tonight," she continued. "Or with the neighbours. Or in a hotel. Or go to Canada, or wherever, if you like. But not here. You've changed. You're no longer the son I remember, the son who loved his father and mother."

"Mama, I'm sorry, I —"

"Get. Out!"

Peter stood up, and stumbled backwards out of his chair. He edged slowly towards the living room. He looked back at his parents, still at the table, their dinner for three left to waste away upon it. Suddenly, he dashed for, and through the apartment door. It slammed shut behind him. A floorboard creaked. Footsteps pummelled down the stairs and out into the night.

Madame slumped back into her chair. "What brought that on, I can't imagine," she muttered. "Do you know, Toulouse?"

He was shaking.

"Toulouse? Toulouse, what's wrong? It's all right; he, he's just having a bit of fuss, that's all. He'll be back soon, I know it. I'm sure of it."

He shook his head, emphatically. "Not that. Not that."

"Then what?"

"Right. He's right. He's so very right." He buried his face in his hands.

Madame moved over and held him in her arms.


	13. Time

**Chapter 13: Time**

An aromatic, dreamlike mist rose into the air from cup and pot, permeating the room. Occasionally, a cool wind, carrying the heralds of rain, would sweep in from outside, dispersing it.

"You, ah, haven't touched your tea, dear."

Kirika studied the reflection in her cup, as if seeing the face in it for the first time.

"Half the taste's in the anticipation, I suppose."

A teaspoon clinked gently on the edge of his saucer.

Monsieur cleared his throat. "Y'know, I read this book once. On tea. Fellow from Japan wrote it, actually. Smart one. Knows his stuff. Said tea was about 'the adoration of the beautiful among the sordid facts of everyday existence.' Sounds about right."

He took a drink.

"Yes…" he breathed, "'the beautiful.' The smell of toast and English Breakfast in morning. Afternoon wind. The Seine by starlight. Firm stone beneath good shoes. Sound of laughter, of children at play. Clear skies. The warm sun. The silver moon. Her silken hair between my fingers. So long ago…"

"That's the problem, nowadays. Everything happens so fast. No time to appreciate these things. Instant change, instant commerce, news now, now, now. No time to think, no time to breathe…no time to live." He shook his head, sadly. "No time to sit down and enjoy a cup of tea on a summer afternoon with a good neighbour. Heh, but what am I saying; what do I think I'm doing right now, eh?"

She sighed, like the wind.

"What _am_ I doing right now?" muttered Monsieur, setting aside his tea. "Sitting here, talking, while he's still out there." He shifted, uncomfortably. "But maybe I'm an old man, and this is for the best. Stay here, with my talk, along with the rest of the old things."

"Talk…we, we don't really talk any more. No conversations; just…exchanges. Dispatches, sent on the overnight wire, clipped, terse, obtuse; words on wings, let loose, and instantly regretted, but already far beyond recall." He closed his eyes. "And then the years slip by, they tick away, day by day, minute by minute. Suddenly, there's no time anymore. No time to share your thoughts, to say what you mean, to…apologize."

"Time…"

"Mm? Oh, was, was I thinking out loud again?"

"What you just said," said Kirika. "About how there isn't time to talk anymore, even with those you…love." She looked up from the tablecloth. "It's true, isn't it?"

Monsieur saw the sadness and the fear in those features, and thought carefully. "Perhaps for me, dear. But for you? No, no, I don't think so."

"But what if it was?" she asked. She continued, with a sudden urgency. "What if, what if you knew there was something you had to do, something you had to say, but, but you didn't know how, or when, only that if you didn't, and soon, you…you might never get the chance…?"

Monsieur eyed her curiously. "Something," he ventured, "that the mind must voice, but the heart dares not?"

She nodded.

"Not a boyfriend thing, is it?" he asked dubiously.

She hesitated, and then nodded, slowly. "Yes. A boyfriend. That's it."

Monsieur raised an eyebrow, just as slowly. "Well, when speech fails you, turn to the pen."

She considered this. "A letter?"

"Worth a shot." He grunted. "She thought so, anyway."

"'She'?"

He grinned, thinly, as he pulled a sheet of paper from the pocket of his vest. "Just came in this morning," he said, of the letter. "It's, ah, one of the reasons I called you over." The other, he knew, remained in the pocket.

She read it. "It's…from your daughter?"

He nodded.

"This…this is wonderful," she said.

"It's also short," he replied. "But, perhaps it will grow. Given…time."

Her almost-smile faded with the weight of that last word.

"Letters. Words. Written words. Our tongues, they give heat to words, too much, make them burning things that hurt you and those you cast them upon." He smiled, ruefully. "Maybe, maybe if I'd remembered that, things would be different. Now, she and I, we can write, share cool words, a salve for old wounds. But they need time to heal. And they never heal completely."

She was crushed. "But then…it's hopeless. For you. For your daughter. And for, for…" Her voice choked off the end of the sentence.

But Monsieur still heard it in his head. "Miss Yuumura?" He got up and knelt by her side. "What is it, my dear?"

"No hope," she whispered. "No escape from what is to come."

The words cut through his black melancholia and roused him. "There's something wrong, isn't there?"

"My time…is almost up."

Monsieur heard those words, and sensed their curious weight. "Ah. Your exchange, correct?" He noticed the blank look she gave him before she turned away, avoiding his face. "We…all have to go home eventually. Everything comes to an end."

"But, but then what I have to say, what I want to tell…that person…" Her eyes trembled. "What if she won't listen? What if she doesn't understand?"

Monsieur sighed. "I…don't suppose I can convince you to ignore the ramblings of an old man now, can I?"

"No," she said, softly. "Because I know in my heart that they are true."

"And I guess you can't tell me what _really_ troubles you so?"

She clenched her fists on her lap.

Monsieur thought for some time. He thought of what he had said, both this afternoon, and last night. He thought of his son, somewhere out there, beyond his help, his reach. He thought of the decision he'd made just a few minutes ago, of the second item in his vest pocket. As his hand crept towards it, he looked upon her. He saw, once again, that face, that face that had defied time; that Fate had pulled across some fifty years and placed upon his doorstep.

"Ehhh. Poor thing. Here." He picked up one of Madame's embroidered handkerchiefs and brushed away some non existent tears from her eyes. "There. It's all right. Really, it is."

She accepted the kerchief, wordlessly.

"Marien and I," he began, "…I know we'll never patch things up completely. I'm old, and set in my ways, and my way is near its end. There's no way to heal the hurt in the time I have, no way to put off that day. But…"

"…But?"

"But who knows? The Fates are strange; they may vanish certainty, and make real the faintest hope." His thoughts drifted to an underused corner of the mantelpiece. "Like they did with you, for example."

"Me?" she said, surprised.

"Spitting image of Marien, at age ten," he said. He grunted. "Probably just a coincidence, but if that can happen, if, by pure chance, we two could meet…then nothing is certain, my dear. The future, least of all."

"Listen…Kirika," he continued. "I don't know what it is you're going through right now. But I know you're upset about it. Maybe, maybe it's so upset you that you're afraid to anything right now, even something you know you must do. I do not know what is in your future, my dear. But, if you have something to say to…her…" He noticed her wince when he said the word. "…Then say it now. Maybe she won't understand, maybe she won't listen, but…if it really is that important, and you do not even try, you will regret it for the rest of your life. Don't let your fear of what is to come interfere with what is here, now."

She looked away. "I…I better go."

He nodded, and rose with her. "I'm sorry. Sorry I've upset you so," he said.

She shook her head. "I just need…time…to think."

"And to write?" he asked, hopefully.

Her back was already towards him, her hand on the door.

"Kirika?" he called to her.

She looked back.

"You'll be just fine," he said. "There is strength in you; I can see it. Whatever it is you are facing, you'll get through it. I know it."

She stepped through the door. Just before it closed, a whispered, "Thank you" slipped through the crack. Then it clicked shut.

Monsieur Trousseau sat down at his now cold tea. "Yes," he said to no one, "you are strong, you and she. Strong enough to do whatever it is you do, down there. In those echoing tunnels." Snatches of strange conversations from countless walks filtered up from his memory, just as they had from those ancient storm drains. Talks of dark deeds that only the strangest of "exchanges" would involve.

He pulled a small, short, cylindrical object from his vest pocket. It was brass, 9 millimetres in diameter, and blackened on the inside. He set in on his neighbour's tea saucer with a clink.

He looked up at the old clock, with its curious two headed medallion, and its incessant, insistent time-keeping. "And my strength is spent," he mumbled, to her vacant spot. "I thought to ask you to help him, if you could. But I couldn't. Couldn't ask you to bear an old man's burden."

The clock ticked ever onward.


	14. Kristalnacht

**Chapter 14: Kristalnacht**

As the dark clouds of a summer storm loomed outside the windows of the apartment, Madame Trousseau shifted slightly in amongst her nest of half-finished scarves, worn-out sweaters, and patched tea cosies, knitting. Time-worn fingers made slow, steady strokes along a never-ending river of woollen yarn, as the old clock on the mantelpiece sliced time with each click and clack of the needles. Beside her, a low candle whispered in a draft.

Monsieur Trousseau was sprawled on the chaise longue in front of the hearth, his hat upon his face. He tossed in his sleep, pursued by dreams.

Madame Trousseau looked up from her knitting at the clock. "Ouch!" She sucked on her finger where the slipped needle had pricked it.

"Hm?" Monsieur snatched the hat from his face, and half rose.

"Nothing, nothing," she said. "I just slipped a bit, that's all."

"You're okay, then?"

"Yes, yes."

"Oh."

Back and forth swung the pendulum.

"Terrible weather we're having," said Madame.

"Dark out there," replied Monsieur.

Madame forced herself to smile. "Well, good thing we're here, safe and sound then!"

Thunder rolled in the distance. She took up her needles.

Monsieur looked up at the clock. "Still not back."

"He'll be all right," she replied. "Yes…he'll be fine. I'm sure of it. He, he knows enough to stay out of a storm like this. He'll be home soon, I know it."

Monsieur sighed.

"I'm sure he'll be okay," said Madame, to herself.

An awkward pause. The click of clockwork filled it.

"Where'd we go wrong, Cosette?"

"Toulouse?"

The words plummeted into the silence, pulled down by the weight of years. "How'd we do it? Drive them away? Our own children…"

Madame paused in her knitting, and pondered the work of her hands. "We…we only did what was best for them." A pause. "Didn't we?"

"Right. 'Only.'"

A bell went 'ding.' Mechanically, the old man swivelled off the chaise longue, stumped to the kitchen, and came back pushing a rickety television tray. Hot, red brew gurgled into a pair of cups.

"Sugar?"

"Eh?" said Madame, surprised.

He stirred a level spoonful into the far cup, wordlessly.

Madame shuffled in her seat, then pulled a long line of yarn from the basket by her chair. Monsieur raised his cup, toasting the evening.

The old clock struck twelve. The chimes at midnight played away.

There was a tremendous crash of breaking glass from beyond the wall.

Madame jumped. "What —"

A million firecrackers exploded in her ears. Splinters sprayed from the far wall. The length of yarn twanged, and went limp, cut clean through. Monsieur cursed as his teacup exploded in his fingers, sending tea and shrapnel everywhere. Something on the mantelpiece broke.

Monsieur blinked at the porcelain loop clutched in his fingers. He reached up with his free hand to grab whatever had landed on his hat, and looked at it.

It was a minute hand.

Madame leapt to her feet, quivering with energy. "What in God's name is — Oooaaah!"

With a cry, Monsieur dove from his seat and tackled his wife to the floor, just as a second burst of gunfire ripped through the room.

"Toulouse! Toulouse, get off me!"

He held onto her, despite her struggles, pressed her to the floor, and covered her bodily, his back between her and the far wall.

Something pinged off the television. A lamp hopped off a table and fell to the floor. Pictures jumped, twisted, and jolted on the mantelpiece, accompanied in their death-throes by the tinkle of glass and the crackle of wood. The spout parted ways from the teapot, atomized. Dust puffed from the side of Madame's chair. Monsieur grunted audibly.

"What's happening!?" shouted Madame. "Toulouse?"

He pressed her to the ground.

Beyond the wall, Bedlam carried on with its performance. Clattering pots and utensils joined the chorus, as did muffled thuds. Things crashed and tinkled. Something cracked. A man screamed, repeatedly. Another hail of bullets. Something whistled through the air. Someone gurgled, and hit the ground, hard. A woman roared. A man screams for mercy were cut off by three tremendous cracks. A slab of meat hit the floor.

A pause.

A wounded animal bellowed, and charged across the floor.

There was a single, percussive, 'pop.'

A clatter of feet. Someone ran into something solid. Hard.

And as suddenly as it had begun, the symphony of chaos was over.

Madame gasped for breath. Shakily, she tried to get to her feet. Monsieur whimpered, and pulled her back down.

Outside, a floorboard creaked twice in rapid succession. Feet pounded down the hall.

"Mireille!" shouted a familiar voice. "It's the Duceppes! We're coming in!" Smash, smash, the splinter of wood, a door crashing to the floor. More footsteps, slower this time. "Well, you've been busy," said the voice.

"Ambush," said a woman. "It was them."

"Ah. _That_ 'them,' or…?"

"It's always 'them,'" she replied.

Madame struggled to get up. Her husband clutched at her tattered shawl. "Stay down, Cosette!" he said.

"They might be hurt," she said, crawling to the door. "We should help them."

"No," moaned Monsieur. "Don't go…stay! Keep quiet! Let it lie!"

"I've done that for thirty years, and look what it's gotten me," she said. "It's time I paid attention to what's outside my home."

Cautiously, she edged open the front door.

The door to apartment 3 had been battered to the ground; a good portion of the doorjamb was reduced to kindling. She could see a man in a well-tailored evening gown standing a few steps beyond it. "…Came prepared," he said. "FAMAS. Kevlar."

"My god," said a foreign woman, "isn't that…?"

"Yes," said a woman. "It is."

She edged into the hallway, on tip-toes. Glass tinkled. "We'll lead them away," said the woman.

"There's more coming?" asked the man. She crept past the fallen door.

"There's always more. Can you take care of things here?"

"Med-evac and cleaners; they're on their way."

"Good."

Madame rounded the corner, and gasped.

It was 1942. The furniture was smashed, the walls and ceiling riddled with bullets. Three soldiers lay amongst the debris, each in their own pool of blood. Three others stood over them, calmly discussing matters.

"No!" She stumbled back.

"Madame?" The man turned, swore, and grabbed her. "Get out of here! Now!"

"No! No! Let me go! Toulouse! Help!"

"Cosette!" Monsieur burst through the door, stumbled forward, and leaned against the wall, wheezing.

"Madame Trousseau! It's me, Maurice! From across the hall! Please, calm down!"

She tried. "Monsieur…Duceppe?"

"Yes," he said.

Her eyes crept to the hand on her shoulder. "Is…is that a gun?"

He released her. "Uh, yes…yes it is."

"Oh."

Slowly, her eyes crept away from that terrifying object to survey the horrors all around it.

It wasn't 1942.

It was _now_, which was worse, much worse.

The smell of gunpowder, blood, and plaster dust hung in the air. Bullet holes riddled the ceiling and walls. Chairs and tables were turned and tossed over everywhere. Shards of glass, splinters of wood, and bits of plastic littered the floor. On the far side of the room, where Cherise was, a man in a dark suit was slumped on the floor, with a rifle in his hand and some sort of cleaver sticking out of him. Before her was another man, his face bloodied beyond recognition. A broken pool cue was next to him. And as she turned, slowly, she saw a third man, who had apparently tripped and pitched face-first into the wall, leaving a huge dent in the drywall.

Glass tinkled. She jumped.

There, illuminated by a flash of lighting, were two young women, paused halfway through the process of climbing out one of the broken bay windows.

Realization hit her in time with the thunder-crack.

"M-Miss Yuumura?" she whispered, terrified.

Neither turned, or moved.

"Mireille?"

The taller one flinched, as if struck. "Evening…Madame," she said.

"What, what's going on here? What is…all this?"

"This is…where I live."

Thunder rattled the floorboards.

"Th-these men, here," said Madame. "All of them…did you…?"

The tall one nodded. "It's what I do." She seemed to slouch slightly. "I had no choice," she added.

"But…but I thought you said you were a fashion consultant!"

She hung her head, as if exhausted. "I…haven't been completely honest with you, Madame."

"Oh."

"Please…take care of them," she said. The Duceppes nodded, imperceptibly.

"Mireille! Wait!" Madame reached for her.

She looked back, her features blackened by the outside light. "Cosette," said a hoarse voice. "I…I'm sorry…"

Light split the sky. For a millisecond, Madame caught a glimpse of a young, pained face, a single tear shining on her cheek.

And then she was gone.

Feet clattered away over the rooftops.

Madame sank to the floor, slowly; Maurice eased her down. "Madame?" he asked.

"My…God…"

Cherise stepped over one of the bodies and knelt by her. "It's all right, Madame; you're safe now."

She shrank from her, terrified. "And…and you two, you two as well…you're the same?"

Maurice scratched the back of his head, embarrassed. "They're freelance, actually. We're, ah, government."

"Oh."

"We didn't want to endanger you," explained Cherise. "Ignorance is the best protection. Usually."

Madame gave her a blank look.

Maurice cleared his throat. "Listen, ah, we've called some teams; they'll clean up around here. Please, just try to relax."

"My God…" Her hands fell to the floor. One of them felt something. Mechanically, she picked it up.

Whatever it was, it was quite mangled. It felt plastic. And it was definitely white. She studied it, curiously.

A hoarse breath made her turn. Her husband, still leaning against the wall, had turned white as moonlight.

"Toulouse?"

Swiftly, he snatched the object from her fingers, and held it up to the light.

It fell from his shaking fingers, and bounced on the floor.

"Peter…" he whispered. "No…"

"Toulouse? Toulouse!" She sprang to her feet and caught him just before he hit the floor. Suddenly, her hand felt warm and wet. "Toulouse! You're bleeding! You've been shot!"

"Bandages!" ordered Maurice, as he tore a long strip off his evening gown. Cherise leapt for a first aid kit on a nearby wall.

"_No!_" Monsieur struggled upright, sweat streaming down his face.

"Toulouse! Lie still!"

"No!" He gasped for breath. "No! Peter! You must find him! Help him!"

Maurice and Cherise glanced at the bodies, the mangled mask, and then each other.

"I'll find him," said Maurice, rising.

"No." Cherise stopped him. "I'm faster. And I know where to look." Outside, just audible over the rumbling clouds, were the sounds of distant gunshots.

"Go." She clambered out the window, and was away.

"Peter!" Monsieur moaned. "My son…what have you gotten yourself into, why, why…?" He collapsed, sobbing.

"Toulouse! Oh Peter!" cried Madame, cradling her husband. "Where are you, Peter!"


	15. Fate

**Chapter 15: Fate**

Dark clouds rumbled.

Black shoes and a suit scrambled over rooftops. Stumbled, slipped. Tumbled against a low chimney, breathing hard.

Peter Trousseau grunted in pain. He cursed the chimney, cursed the roof, the dark sky, his life, but mostly the stupid mask on his face. He tore it off.

Another rudely shoved its way into his vision. "Keep it on, you idiot!"

"I can't see a damned thing, Vélohr," he said.

"You answered the call, so you wear it!" said Verloc. "That's the way it works!" He looked about, swiftly, and checked the clip in his pistol. "They're coming this way: the targets."

"Targets," muttered Peter, strapping the mask in place. "They're not targets, they're our _neighbours!_"

"Do you think I'm happy about any of this?" hissed Verloc. "Think I'm happy that I had to order an assault on my own apartment?"

"Mama, Papa…my God…"

"We have our orders, and we follow them. That's how it works."

"Mad," whispered Peter, "this is all mad."

"_They're_ the mad ones, Peter. They're the killers, the murderers, who hid right under our noses. They're the ones who killed Blanche and his team. And _we're_ the ones who will stop them."

Lightning crashed amongst the clouds.

"You take that direction," said Verloc, gesturing east, "I'll take this one. And click it off, already!" He snatched the gun from Peter's hands, released the safety catch, and tossed it back. Peter fumbled it, then held it in shaking palms. "You're _un Chevalier du Paris_, a soldier of Justice! Act like one!"

"This is nuts," he said, to the gun. "This is crazy. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here!"

"You run," said Verloc, scanning the horizon, "and there is no place they won't find you, or your family."

"Your fault," he sobbed, "all your fault. All of this. You forced me into it."

"Forced? I did nothing but show you the inevitable truth. Now, get up! Be a man, for God's sake!"

"I was a constable, you were a captain. You forced me, all those years ago. Should never have come. Should never have listened. Never. Never. Should've run. Should've hid."

A hammer cocked. He froze, and looked up.

A masked man was aiming a gun at him.

"Shut. Up." Verloc steadied his aim. "And get on your feet. It was your choice to make, your word to give; you made it, and you gave it. Now live with it, or die a coward."

Behind the mask, Peter felt his cold terror melt at the touch of fury.

Verloc checked over his shoulder, and took cover behind the opposite chimney. "Get ready. They're coming."

Hesitantly, Peter peeked over the edge of his cover.

The roofs of Paris swarmed with masks and suits; he knew them all by name. Brun over to the right, Violet and Ripley three homes ahead. In the distance were at least twenty more; some he had worked with, others he drank with, a few he barely knew at all.

All were fighting, and dying, one by one. Two figures, one blue and white, the other red and black, barely visible in the gloom, danced across the rooftops, leaping from ambush to ambush, ravenous prey, on the hunt. Guns blazed, knives flashed, men fell, again and again. The red figure gunned down Ripley on the run. He shut his eyes, terrified. He heard two screams, which he knew were Violet and Brun.

A woman cried out in surprise.

He looked.

There, on the edge of the roof before and below them, a blonde haired woman hung precariously, having almost fallen onto the street. The target.

No…not just that, said a voice in his head. A good tenant. A neighbour. A thing of beauty. A friend to your parents. To you. Hanging there, defenceless. Helpless.

"My parents," he whispered. He envisioned them now, holding each other, trembling in the dark, too scared to move. Heard the terrible sounds that shattered their tranquil evening. Felt in his heart them calling, calling for their son to come home. "Their son…me…my parents…"

And then grief turned hot, and set his fear ablaze. He turned to his left, slowly. There, through the two slits of the accursed mask he was wearing, was him. The one who terrorized them, who gave the order, who watched three of his best friends storm armed into the very home he grew up in, and shed no tears when they didn't come out. The one behind it all: the man of Justice.

Verloc stood, and took careful aim at the distant figure. "Got you!" he said.

"_Verloc!_"

Guns blazed.

A wild shot grazed Verloc, distracting him. He missed, just. He whirled, eyes furious. "You!"

Peter breathed hard. The gun quaked in his hands, smoking.

Verloc swung about, pulled the —

Two shots, muted by distance, echoes, and the rumbling clouds, rang out.

Verloc's mask flew off in a shower of blood and shrapnel. He grunted, spun, flopped onto the roof tiles, and lay still.

The gun slipped from Peter's fingers, and skittered down the roof. He slid down the chimney onto his rear, stunned. His ears heard running steps, raised voices, the sounds of battle…he ignored them all. He struggled to breathe. His hands moved to cradle his head, and met mask. He tore it from his face in anger, and hurled it aside.

"His fault," he thought, as he cradled his knees. "His, not mine. He forced me. Should have let me out. Let me run. Their fault, too. My parents. Had a plan, had an escape. Held me back. All these years, held me back. Could've been somebody. Could've been big. Could've…"

Memories bubbled forth, unbidden. Of promotions, offered, and passed over; of desk jobs, sought, rather than avoided; of opportunities for adventure, for success, for glory, seen and shunned out for sake of his own skin. Of the man who came to him one day, offering him the power and glory he'd always wanted, but feared to take. Of how eagerly he took his hand.

"No," he whispered. "My fault. Mine. All mine. Always mine."

More thoughts: of his mother's lips on his forehead, every day before school; of his father on the side of his bed, spinning tales straight from his head, every night; of his father, stern with disapproval, paying his entrance to the police academy, nonetheless; of his mother's warm embrace on the day of his graduation; of their tired, worried faces on those nights he'd come home late; of their joy and open arms when he didn't. Countless bonds of love and affection, surrounding him, a web he'd always struggled to escape from, while secretly enjoying its soft warmth.

A sob wracked his body. "Mama…Papa…I'm sorry, so sorry…"

A thump on the roof tiles. He stirred from his grief, just.

There were two pink shoes on the leads before him.

He looked up, slowly.

A young girl, Asian, sharp, focused, determined, and merciless, had a gun to his head.

Their eyes met.

She blinked. Her eyes lost some of their edge. Her breathing quickened. Briefly, some sort of struggle seemed to play out over her face. The gun wavered.

A tear started from one of his eyes. He blinked it away.

She vanished.

In the distance, he heard, once more, the sounds of war. Clouds growled overhead.

Shaking, Peter Trousseau rose, and stood on his own two feet. He sniffled, wiped away his tears, and took stock of his world. All around him were the shapes of the fallen, barely distinguishable in the midnight black beneath the ominous clouds. Slowly, he turned, and, like a man condemned, shuffled off into the night.

There was a metallic 'click.'

Through his mental haze of grief and fear, Peter heard the laboured, obstreperous gasps of a dying man. His head rotated towards the sound, pulled by threads of fate.

Verloc lay on his heaving, bleeding chest, his left arm pinned beneath it. One of his eyes was a mass of blood, the other a twitching ball of hatred. With his free arm, he raised his weapon, clenched in a death-grip.

"_Traitor!_" he hissed.

Tears rolled down Peter's face. "Father," he whispered. "Forgive —"

Heaven let slip the thunderbolt, and Justice was served.


	16. Faith

**Chapter 16: Faith**

Cold tears dashed themselves against the windowpane. Inside, the air was still, still and sterile as a tomb. In that dark and empty white space, an old woman lay sleeping on the edge of a steel bed, upon which an old man lay deathly still. An intravenous tube dripped. Various electronic sentinels glowed and made unearthly sounds.

The old man twitched. His hands clenched into claws, grasping something invisible. Words unintelligible murmured from his lips. The woman stirred, and yawned.

"Toulouse?" she said, muzzily.

"Hide, hide, hide," mumbled her husband. "Get away…run…"

Bullets spun and split the walls around him. He cringed, and held the rifle tight to his chest.

"Toulouse!" shouted his friend, on the opposite side of the street.

"Toulouse?" Madame rose. A thick book fell to the floor.

"No…no…I can't," mumbled Monsieur, tossing. "Too many, Robert, too many, don't make me, no…"

A machine gun roared. The crates Robert and the others were behind disintegrated. Philippe screamed. Robert fired blindly over his shoulder. "Shoot, damn it!" he yelled.

She held his hand. "Toulouse! Wake up! Toulouse!"

He shook his head and squirmed, as if trying to hide in a corner.

"_Toulouse!" _

Three objects flew through the air. Men screamed. Heat. Light. Noise.

"No!" he cried, leaping up. Madame caught him.

Madame caught him. "Toulouse! It's me!"

Monsieur looked through her, blind with panic. "Cosette?" he whispered.

"Yes! You're in the hospital. You're safe here. Everything's all right."

Mind and body made their way back to the present. "Peter?" he asked, fearfully.

Madame swallowed. "Madame Duceppe came by a few minutes ago. He said they've found him, and that he should be joining us soon."

"Oh." He sagged back onto the bed, relieved and exhausted. Madame let him down gently.

"The doctors say you should be fine," she continued. "They said it was just a flesh wound."

He nodded, weakly. "The apartment…the police, we should call them…?"

"Monsieur Duceppe says he'll take care of it," she reassured him. "It's…what he does, apparently," she added, to herself.

"You…you think you know someone, eh?" joked Monsieur, wheezing.

"And then the mask falls away," replied Madame, recalling the words she'd heard, "and you're never prepared for what's beneath it."

"Right, right under our noses!" he continued, shaking with laughter.

"She seemed like such a good person," she said, to herself. "She talked with me in the hall, walked with me by the riverside, helped carry the groceries. We, we even shared recipes."

"The truth, it was right before us, we, we just didn't want to see it. Even, even after he showed us."

Something changed in the tone of Monsieur's laughter. Madame noticed. "Toulouse?"

"Peter," he said, through his sobs, "you were right, Peter."

"Toulouse?"

Tears started in his eyes. "Oh, Cosette, he was right. About me. I'm a coward. Always was. Always will be."

After a moment, Madame understood what he meant. "That's _not_ true," she replied. "You're a hero to all of France."

"I'm no hero," he moaned. "There are none. No heroes, no good, no evil, none then, none now, none ever. Just people, running scared, trying to survive."

The words shook her heart. "Toulouse…"

"The good die," he continued, "and we live on. Liars, cheats, thieves, murderers, betrayers, all of us."

The rain poured on. She sat back, at a loss for words.

"World's dark," he whispered into his pillow. "Nowhere darker than in our hearts."

A single tear floated down her cheek. She touched it, and remembered a face, lit by the light of heaven.

The face of a killer.

The face of a young woman.

Her friend.

In grief.

"Maybe you're right, Toulouse," she said, softly. "Maybe there are no heroes, anymore. Maybe we're all just fumbling in the dark, trying to survive."

He sighed.

"But there's more, Toulouse. There has to be. Maybe we're not all…_good_…people. But we all try do what we feel is right. Sometimes, we get it wrong, and we hurt, when we do, both others and ourselves. The darkness grows within us. Grief, anger, betrayal, it all builds up in our hearts."

"Until it swallows us," said Monsieur, bitterly.

"It doesn't have to, Toulouse. It doesn't. It didn't take you."

He considered this. "Or you," he said, after a time.

"A dark room stays that way until you open the door. And that's what you did, Toulouse. You let me in, shared all you were with me. You did the same every day with our children, and our friends. That takes courage, real courage, Toulouse. And to keep that door open, to forgive, even when hurtful things pass through it?" She smiled. "That's the bravest act of all."

Two strong hands closed gently around her fingers, to her surprise. Monsieur raised them to his lips, and kissed them. "Most wonderful woman in the world," he said.

"And you're a wonderful husband," she replied.

Thunder rumbled off distant rooftops. "The world," said Monsieur, his eyes distant. "Changed so much, since we were young."

Madame nodded, and sniffled.

"Yet hasn't," he continued. "Still at war. People, still fighting each other."

"And loving," she added.

Monsieur nodded. "Those two…the young folks…"

"Yes?"

"Maybe…maybe we leave things to them, eh?" He smiled, weakly.

Madame wiped away a tear.

They embraced each other, and closed their eyes.


	17. Is a Beginning

**Chapter 17: …Is a Beginning.**

The light of dawn glittered off the dew on grass, left by a still-lingering fog brought on by the curiously chill September morning. A drop of mist coalesced on a leaf of a broad, tall tree, rolled off, fell, and splashed against a wide granite stone. A small heart-shaped arrangement of marigolds leaned against it. Beneath that lay a bouquet of zinnias.

Two women stepped forth from the rolling fog. Both bore bouquets; the taller had one arm in a sling. As they drew near, two figures stirred and detached themselves from the shadow of a nearby tree. The shorter one alerted her companion to this with a touch.

"Hello again," said Mireille.

"We didn't see you at the service, yesterday," said Maurice. "We weren't sure if you'd show up."

She hesitated. "We…didn't think it would be appropriate."

"You're damned right it wouldn't," fumed Cherise, beside him.

"Cherise…"

"I'm surprised you have the gall to show up even now," she added.

Her husband laid a firm hand on her shoulder. "Those men could have just as easily been meant for us," he said.

"But —"

"We both made the same mistake here, Cherise," he said, with a glance to the new arrivals. "We thought we could live in peace. We dreamed of a normal life. That's what it was: a dream. And now," he added, bitterly, "we've woken up."

Mist coalesced on the grey stone. It pooled in the channels left by the three names carved there.

"Maurice…Cherise," said Mireille. "Thank you for taking care of things around here."

"Wouldn't do to have something like that hit the headlines anyway," replied Maurice.

"Fine job we did of it, too," added Cherise.

Kirika glanced at the third name on the stone.

Cherise noticed. "I know neither of you did it," she said. "He was…gone…by the time I reached him."

"It's all right," she said. "There was nothing you could have done."

"I should have been faster. I was there; I saw it happen. I could have stopped him. I could have saved him. I should have been faster."

Kirika started to say something, but held back.

"I left you out of my report," said Maurice. "At least, to the greatest degree possible. My superiors ordered it suppressed immediately." He grinned, ruefully. "These 'Soldats' of yours; they get around, it seems. But," he added, "they cover their tracks poorly."

"We can find them," said Cherise. "We can hunt them. And we _will_ make them pay."

"You'll kill them, then, I suppose?" said Mireille.

"Well, yes." She noticed her resigned look. "We thought you two would be all for it."

"So many have died already," said Kirika. "What good will another grave do?"

"What good?" she asked, incredulous. "They'll be _dead_, that's the good!"

"And for each head you cut, three more will spring up," said Mireille.

"But we have to do something," she said.

"But not that, necessarily. Dead men tell no tales, it is said. And that's exactly how 'they' like it. Death is the guardian of secrets, and they hide under its cloak. No, you can't fight the darkness from the shadows. That's not how you kill a _secret_ organization."

Realization crept in; her hard expression turned thoughtful. "We know some people with _Le Monde_," she said.

"I'm sure they'd love to hear from you," added her husband.

"Thanks," said Mireille, "but not yet. We need evidence. And we have things to take care of."

"'Things'?"

"_Things_."

"Ah," said Maurice.

"How was it? The service?" asked Kirika.

"Short," he said. "Their daughter, Marien, I think it was, showed up with her family. Said a few words. I don't think it's quite sunk in for her yet, to tell the truth."

"She's inherited the apartment," added Cherise. "I think one of her children plans to move in, take over management of the place, fix it up."

"Mm," said Kirika.

"We noticed you came by about a week ago," said Maurice. "You…_are_ moving back in, I suppose?" Mireille shook her head. "No?"

"Maybe some day," she said. "But not now. It's too soon. But we will, eventually. It's…home…after all."

"Hmm. I don't suppose you've a forwarding address for us?"

She smiled, mysteriously.

"Thought not."

"We should go, Maurice," said his wife.

He agreed. "Well, write, if you can. And if you're ever in town…"

"Warn us," said Cherise.

"Goodbye, you two," said Mireille.

"Until our next meeting," added Kirika.

The two spies dipped their heads in acknowledgement, and then set off into the cold.

The two women approached the headstone. One laid a bouquet of white chrysanthemums upon it, the other, a bushel of hazel.

Three names accepted them, staring out from the cold stone.

Kirika crouched to the ground, and read the third. "'Peter Trousseau. Beloved son and brother. Taken too soon.'"

"I heard about him the day after you…left," said her partner.

Her eyes drifted over to the other half of the stone. "Did…they…know?"

"I doubt it. The Duceppes were too busy to make it to the hospital that night. And then, then next day…" She settled to the ground. "They…died in their sleep."

Kirika looked thoughtful. "Was it a dream?"

"Hmm?"

"What Monsieur Duceppe said: was it all a dream?"

"What do you think?"

She thought. "The…context…may not have been real. The words left much unsaid. But…the feelings, the…love…"

"I'm sure it was the same for them," said Mireille, quietly.

"But we deceived them," she continued. "We lied to them, every day. We drew them into our lives, as they did to us, without thinking of the consequences. And maybe, if we hadn't…"

"Kirika…"

"Mireille!" She turned to her, haunted. "Did we…?"

Mireille let the question float on the morning mist. She got down on her knees, and gently touched the stone tablet.

"We have a lot to talk about," she whispered.

**Director's Commentary Do not read until you have finished the story! Really!**

This is the longest work of fiction I've ever written, and probably the second I've ever finished completely. I do hope you enjoyed reading it; thanks for sticking with it to the end.

Unless, of course, you didn't, and instead decided to jump right to the end. Bad dog! No biscuit!

These sections contain all the "short" author's notes you'd normally find at the end of each chapter. They've turned out to be so numerous that I'd originally planned to file them away into a nice Director's Commentary chapter. Then I noticed the angry red text on the website. Blast! It also contains alternate scenes, and a great deal of sarcasm.

General

The origins of this story came from a discussion on the oyasumi.nu webboard. Someone wondered who else lived in Mireille's apartment, and someone else said something like, "No one. They were all scared away by all the loud sex and bodies falling off the roof.

This got me thinking. There aren't any actual exchanges of gunfire in or around the apartment until volume 6. (As for the "loud sex," well…) This leaves about a year or more where people could live there. Even if Mireille owns the whole building, there's no reason why those other 8 or so apartments wouldn't be occupied.

So what kind of people would live there?

Drawing inspiration from Garth Ennis's run on _The Punisher_, I concluded that the rest of the apartment's tenants would probably be pretty darn normal. However, Mireille was still able to return to the apartment after the shootout. There's no police tape, no dead neighbours, no angry landlords demanding a damage deposit. And "normal" in Ennis's book was defined relative to Frank Castle. So maybe things weren't so normal after all.

Since nobody apparently had any problem with Mireille still living there despite the massive shootout, and since it's damned funny, I concluded that everyone in the apartment must be one of four things:

1. A Soldat.

2. A spy or underworld operative.

3. Really, really dumb.

4. Dead.

Hence, this scene.

(Begin fantasy sequence)

A terrifying battle. Bullets are flying, people are dying, furniture is breaking. Very noisy.

The corridor is full of people. Most are ducking. Some have their hands in their nightshirts, apparently gripping some sort of fist-sized metallic objects.

_An old lady hobbles up to the door. A few stray rounds whip through it past her face. She doesn't notice. _

She knocks.

Lady: Excuse me, Miss Bouquet?

A hail of gunshots. A man screams. There are several loud thumps, as if heavy sacks had fallen to the ground. Then silence.

Mireille: (breathing hard) Um, yes?

Lady: The neighbours are trying to sleep, and they're complaining about the noise. Could you keep it down, please?

Someone gurgles. There are several loud thwacks, interspersed with screams, almost as if someone were hitting a side of meat with a pool cue. Then, again, silence.

Mireille: I'll see what I can do.

Lady: Thank you. Goodnight, Miss Bouquet.

(End)

That was the genesis of Madame Trousseau, the most sickeningly kind old lady you could ever meet. She would be Aunt May, Mrs. Magoo, and your grandma all rolled into one.

And so it began.

The Title

From here, the story went through several conceptual changes, as evident in its multiple titles:

The Diary of Madame Toulouse, Neighbour of Noir

Excerpts from the Life of Madame Trousseau, Widow

Excerpts from the Life of Madame Trousseau, Senior Citizen

Excerpts from the Life of Madame and Monsieur Trousseau

Scenes from the Life of Madame and Monsieur Trousseau

When this story was more of a pure comedy, I'd planned on a journal entry format. You know, something like "Dear Diary: today, Miss Bouquet said those young hooligans who harassed me the other day 'wouldn't be bothering me anymore.' How nice!" The format turned out to be too limiting, so I dropped it.

Next, Madame became a widow. I think Peter popped up at this point, as Madame was too incompetent to run the apartment. I dropped this idea when I thought a widowed Madame might be too depressing.

So, her husband came back from the grave, and she became a Senior Citizen. I was even less satisfied with this concept, mostly because the title sounded really, really dumb.

The breakthrough occurred when I envisioned Chapter 4, the encounter between Kirika and Monsieur. I found their relationship so fascinating that I plotted out a whole series of encounters between the two of them. I believe I also looked back at the Prologue, and realized that I could really go places with the implied tension between Peter and Monsieur.

I'm not exactly certain when the story turned to tragedy. I know Peter had a lot to do with it: if everyone but the old folks were Soldats, well, he'd have to be one too. And if he were one, well, then, like everyone else in the apartment, he'd get mixed up in the big Sin Within the Sin, and end up dead. I also realized that Mireille and (especially) Kirika were not naturally sociable people; moreover, they could never completely open up to anyone who wasn't in The Business, for fear of their own personal safety. This pall of secrecy would hang over any friendly chats they might have with the Trousseaus, resulting in some grade-A angst.

Conceptually, this story has several roots. I've always loved Episode 13 (Season of Hell). It's one of those rare moments in the show where you see the main character's lives outside of work (shopping!) and what happens when their personal and professional lives collide. Much of the tone of this story came from this episode. I'd also recently read Joseph Conrad's The Secret Agent; this set up the overall sense of doom, and Madame Trousseau's fate.

The story started off as a way to answer all those niggling unanswered questions left behind by the series. No, not "What was Altena thinking?" or "What do those two gunshots mean?" More like, "Why does Mireille, a noted loner, have so much furniture?" and "Where did Kirika find a book on how to make a darn fine cup of Orange Pekoe?" Later, as I got into the characters of the Trousseaus, I realized that they were really the anti-Noir: slow, dull, happy, funny, and carefree. This created an immediate conflict between the world of the story and the world of Noir, a conflict that largely dictated how the plot took shape.

Characters

In or around Chapter 2, I decided to call everyone by first or last name except for the Trousseaus, to reflect their grand old dame and sir status.

Madame Trousseau started off as Mrs. Magoo, hence her pigeon-like appearance and intelligence. Once Monsieur got moving, however, I realized she really needed fleshing out, or she'd lose her place in the title. She stayed the wistful, dreamy, hopelessly optimistic person she was originally, but inherited a little wisdom; less pigeon, more owl. Conceptually, she's probably got a lot of Spider-Man's Aunt May in her. Looking back now, I can also see a bit of Mrs. Ramsay from Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse in her, what with her focus on family and all. Of course, Mrs. Ramsay is about a million times more complex, and Woolf took knitting in an entirely different direction (one which I still can't totally fathom).

Monsieur Trousseau quickly became a main character after I realized how interesting his conflict with Peter would turn out; in fact, for a while he was in danger of overshadowing Madame completely. I have a very particular mental picture of Monsieur; he looks exactly like this one golfer on the PGA Tour (the name of whom, regrettably, escapes me). For why he became a wise old Ent, see the commentary for Chapter 4.

I think Peter turned up when I decide that Monsieur should be too old to run the joint, possibly earlier. He's a classic coward figure, really.

The names?

Why Trousseau? I dunno. Possibly an amalgam of Trudeau (the eccentric Canadian Prime Minister) and Clouseau (of Peter Sellers fame).

Cosette was inspired. I needed a name that suggested innocence and naivety, and after a moment's fiddling with foreign language names, remembered that "Castle in the Clouds" number from Les Miserables.

Toulouse sounds wimpy enough. "Too lose"?

Peter? Why not? (Might have been some subconscious Spider-Man stuff going on here.)

Maurice and Cherise? Like Boris and Doris from True Lies.

Conrad's The Secret Agent is a huge influence on this story, and Verloc is a definite nod to him. Oddly enough, Conrad's Verloc wasn't very talkative either.

The Soldats are so named so it's bloody obvious they're Reservoir Dog-like goons. Although I briefly considered the names (The Talented Mr.) Ripley, Vhailor (a justice-obsessed character from the computer game Planescape: Torment), and other such names.

Chapter 1

Time check: this chapter, and the next two, presumably takes place about a year or so before the show starts, so as to give Mireille time enough to settle in.

The title: I'll explain later.

I had to establish Madame as the most sickeningly dull person I could right off the bat. Hence, knitting. Later, I remembered that knitting weaving fate and the web of life, so that was fun. Later still, I remembered that Mrs. Ramsay did something really (sexually?) symbolic with her knitting, and went, "Damn it! I hated that book!"

Monsieur's on a chaise longue; appropriate, since he's got family issues and all, and he essentially acts as counsellor to Kirika.

The Trousseaus started out as caricatures since, at the time I wrote this, this was a straight up comedy. In truth, they stay pretty flat throughout, too. I've considered rewriting this scene, but figured that its light-hearted mood provided a nice contrast to Chapter 14.

Originally, Monsieur had this really atrocious accent. He "rolled his 'r's' luxuriously." I dropped the idea because (a) I kept forgetting about it and (b) it made him sound like the French guard in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

If Madame and Monsieur sound more like an old English couple than a French one, that'd be because I know nothing about old French people.

The Saotome's were a throwaway gag more than anything else. Essentially, I asked, "Okay, so who lived in the flat before Mireille moved in?" and Ranma suggested himself.

Chapter 2

The title: originally, I had no titles for any of the chapters, as I'd intended the story to play out as one, long continuous piece. This was before I learned the limitations of this website, and before I realized how bloody long this thing would be. This chapter was originally entitled, "Casual Conversations," but I figured that was too much ironic humour too fast. Hence the more neutral, "Introductions."

This scene flowed fairly easily, helped in no small part by the bubbling enthusiasm of Madame Trousseau. I picked up my first running gag when I thought over what Madame's first impression of Mireille would be. I checked the latter's wardrobe, and concluded, "Skank." Ha!

I have absolutely no idea why Madame took on pigeon-like characteristics. It popped up in the boring shopping scene, after I'd made Monsieur an Ent. Then Peter became a rat.

I made a decision here to have the narrative perspective follow either Madame or Monsieur at all times; all cut-aways would be done in italics.

I also decided to keep all the Soldats nearly mute, since it was funny. That, and I'd have to pay the actors more if they have lines.

This scene changed several times, as I was initially unsure as to who else lived in the apartment (and the exact number of rooms it had). Earlier, I had a completely drugged-out stoner and an old ex-KGB agent sitting around the place. Both were axed, as the former was stupid and the latter unnecessary (Maurice got his lines).

The Duceppes (named after Gilles Duceppe, current leader of Canada's Bloq Quebecois party, I think) were an absolute riot to write. They're essentially James Bond and The Only Woman Who Could Tolerate His Company (Because She's Better than Him at Everything and She Knows It).

"Waste management, hmm?" said Mireille, examining the couple. "Clever."

Because they take care of scum.

I wrote up The Rat in the old, grandiose tradition of Ernest Stavros Blofeld. I thought about fleshing him out a bit, but then thought, "He's dead in a few pages, why bother?" Later, I twiddled with his speech so it resonated with Verloc's. To see the "old trick" in action, watch the opening sequence of (the otherwise rather terrible) The World is Not Enough.

Oh, and feel free to whistle the Bond theme at the end of Cherise's flashback, as I do.

"Oh, don't use that," said Madame, accepting the bag of groceries. "Monsieur Verloc says we should beware of bicycle thieves. Bring it in instead; it's drier and very much safer."

Possibly the only answer we will ever have to the question, "Why does Mireille haul her scooter up three flights of stairs every day?"

Chapter 3

The title: changed several times. I think it started as "Light a Candle," then went through several iterations. I hit upon "Enlightenment" after about the third one: bringing light to darkness, lightening one's emotional load, learning new things, etc.

"'NSB Official Murdered. Police Suspect Foul Play.' Second one this month. What is this world coming to?"

In "Our Daily Bread," one of the senior officials comments that two non-commissioned NSB/GIGN officers were murdered prior the events of that episode.

Monsieur Trousseau held the evening paper at arm's length.

Yes, he's far-sighted. What of it? (snickers)

Now that I think about it, Madame's "romance novel" is probably another Mrs. Ramsay reference.

"Oh no, no, no," is stolen from those horrible old women the Monty Python troupe put in all their skits.

I worried that revealing Peter as a member of The Knights (Les Chevaliers) of Paris this early on might ruin the rest of the story. Then I remembered that (1) it would make nice ironic tension and (2) it's conceivable that some readers might miss it, so I kept writing.

As evident in the flashback, I tried to keep the story at least partially accessible to people relatively unfamiliar with Noir. I highly doubt I've succeeded.

The talk with the Duceppes was tough, since I had to establish Mireille's cold heart without having a fire-fight break out. I was stuck for a solution, when cookies saved the day. Cookies: they make everything better.

The talk needed to simultaneously establish the Duceppes and convince Mireille to give Madame a chance. Mireille's a normal person, but probably not a sociable one. Currently, she really had no idea what to make (or do with) this strange eccentric old bat living next door to her. She needed something to push her over the edge: why not expert testimonials from our favourite spies?

"But the great web is so large we see but a little of it at a time, and influence even less."

A paraphrase from Rudyard Kipling's Kim, used for an entirely different purpose.

Yes, that is the cane formerly held by The Rat. I figured that Maurice had a fairly black sense of humour. It also, in a roundabout way, shows how the world of Noir is slowly starting to seep into the Trousseau's little sanctuary.

Chapter 4

Time check: this scene takes place exactly 15 minutes before Mireille unrolls that blueprint for the National Armed Alliance safe-house.

The title: this chapter was really an attempt to explain all those dramatic tea shots in Noir. That particular beverage probably has more symbolic importance (and screen-time!) than the two guns.

Latvian Idol. Oh ho ho ho. That's a good one.

Upon reflection, I suppose this makes the apartment the anti-Manor: instead of a place time forgot, we have a place that has forgotten time. That's the main reason for the old radio, anyway. At one point, I had it playing "Maybe" by The Ink Spots, in a direct reference to the Fallout role-playing game.

A young punk screamed a discordant techno-gothic number in his ear.

I suppose you could interpret this as "Salva Nos" if you really want to.

"Oriental" is used because Monsieur's just the kind of archaic person to use such a term.

This was one of the earliest scenes I'd imagined. I realized that Kirika has about a zillion tactical skills and precisely zero social ones. Ergo, she can face down a crack squad of machine-gun toting assassins, but will have absolutely no defence against the terror that is the overly-friendly geriatric tea-obsessed old man. I mean, honestly, the only reason she bonded with Nazerov so fast was because there was a cat involved. No cat here. And this is probably her first or second day in France, too. Culture shock! Bam!

The first part of the scene was easy: build up Monsieur's character/idiosyncrasies, and then bring in the amusing Noir rendezvous. I'd toyed with the idea of giving Kirika both jet-lag AND culture shock, but figured that'd be overkill. Since it was, it ended up in Noir: Contracts.

Their actual conversation was more difficult: I could coast on humour for a while, but I need to give Kirika an actual reason to come back to this (presumably terrifying) old man. I decided to exploit the symbolism of tea, and had Monsieur rant about it long enough for Kirika to calm down. Then I had him drop enough words of wisdom to catch her interest, and closed the scene with a convenient deus ex Mireille.

I fired up a harpsichord in the background because I firmly believe it's the creepiest classical instrument out there.

Then I had to name the complex. At first I thought "The House of Faint Hope," but then I remembered that seven-eighths of its inhabitants were liars, and the others stupid. Hence "The Castle Without Secrets."

Kirika's resemblance to Monsieur's daughter wasn't something I planned. I'd thrown the reference to the daughter in earlier, and then realized I could use that as a reason why Monsieur would bond with her.

Not being a tea-drinker myself, I've no idea how realistic Monsieur's little tea-appreciation spiel actually is. Any inaccuracies should be chalked up to the fact that he's a crazy old man living in a dream world. (I respect my characters! Honest!)

Yes, Monsieur is talking about D-Day.

A hand, gnarled and calloused with age, brushed against her fingers like a springtime branch, startling her.

This is where Monsieur became an Ent. I wrote "gnarled" and thought, "What is he, an Ent?" and answered, "Why not?" Fitting, since he's old and wrinkled and wise and stiff. Of course, if he was an Ent, and Kirika a lost cat, and Mireille a panther, Madame had to be something (a pigeon/owl).

Chapter 5

Time check: Monsieur and Madame's scene presumably takes place the day after Mireille scatters a bouquet of lilies in a certain graveyard. Mireille and Kirika have their chat on the evening after the hit in Episode 2. Yes, I'm well aware that it's sunny at the end of that episode. It was a sudden squall. Honest.

The title: well, it is!

I hate this bloody scene. I really do. Although it turned out a lot better than I thought, I still hate using the dual-track flashback structure. It's like welding an octopus to a skunk; it stinks, and just feels weird. It does, however, do its job, establishing the two world-views and the basic conflict between them.

Alternate opening to this scene:

(Excerpt start)

"It's true and you know it, Toulouse," she said. "And what a beautiful thing it is. Two complete strangers meeting in the land of the rising sun, overcoming their differences, discovering their common past, and surrendering to the bonds of love!"

"It was planned from the start by their handlers," replied Monsieur.

"Nonsense. It was true romantic destiny, plain and simple!"

"It's _Lost in Translation_, not Shakespeare!"

(End)

Golgo 13? Why not? We've got James Bond, why not the Asian connection? And anyone who says, "…" is okay in my book.

Oh, and durians are the coolest fruit ever, with the possible exception of dragon fruit. Those things are, like, spiky fireballs, man!

Would a flat-panel display have a ghastly glow? Eh, she's got the backlighting maxed I guess.

This scene took a damn long while, for some reason. Oh yeah, because I didn't know what should happen in it. The result was lines like this:

(Excerpt start)

"Yes. And its no more than what he deserved." She slid closer to her side. "This is the life I live, Kirika. Death and deception fill it, but it's not so bad when you get used to it, really. Kinda cool, actually. Like, there was this one time, in China, where there was this guy, and I was all like bang bang bang, and he went splat, and there was blood everywhere, so I was all, 'Like, eww!' and…"

(End)

On the other hand, it's an absolute joy writing dialogue for Madame and Monsieur. And they make for the most entertaining scene transitions.

"Belladonnas? Sorry ma'am," said the florist, "fresh out of them."

Seriously, Mireille and the Woman together buy, like 5 TONNES of belladonna lilies.

Violets happiness.

Flowering Reed confidence in heaven. This is obviously one well-stocked florist.

Apparently, White lilies youthful, innocence; not quite so for belladonna's methinks.

Tragically, I couldn't find a flower that meant "Relentless Optimism."

Chapters 6 and 7

Time check: both chapters occur simultaneously, presumably anywhere from a day to a week after the events of Episode 5. Mireille's flashback takes place about ten minutes before Madame happens by. Kirika's happens 11 milliseconds after the end of Episode 3.

The titles: technically, I suppose, what we have here are four sides to a conversation. Meh.

This was probably my first major stumbling block: I'm great at humour, but drama? Argh. I'd fleshed out four scenes with Monsieur and Kirika; now, I needed an accompanying four for Madame and Mireille so they wouldn't get left in the dramatic dust.

Kirika needed a father/sage figure (one that wouldn't be dead by the end of the episode, anyway) hence I paired her with Monsieur. Mireille needed a friend/confidant more than anything, so she got the ever-loving Madame. Both of them were also orphans. They matched up pretty good, in the end.

These scenes evolved from an in-car brainstorming session. It started off as a Mireille/Kirika/Madame/Monsieur four-way encounter (ewww…) in the park. Then I remembered that I had absolutely no plans for a Kirika/Madame or Mireille/Monsieur relationship.

Well, crapicus maximus, it's not wine, it's whiskey. Now I've got to change the glasses to tumblers.

Holy crap, it was brewed in 1960! That's convenient!

At some point, I think I considered making Mireille utterly wasted in this scene. But she didn't seem the type. She doesn't drink when she's depressed, she just kills people. So much healthier, no? Although it is tempting….

(Fantasy sequence)

Mireille and Madame stumble up the stairs, leaning on each other.

Monsieur: Cosette!?

Kirika: Mireille?!

Mireille and Madame: (singing) Waaaasting away in margaritaville…

(End)

I love "apropos," but have yet to work it into casual conversation. Damnation.

Madame started her transition from stupid pigeon to wise owl in Chapter 6. I also gave her a nautical background for no apparent reason. Wait; the whole "river of yarn" thing, right.

I like this scene, especially the ritualistic "tings" of the tumblers. It's all Tai-Chi, man!

I hope the Seine doesn't stink too much.

If you subscribe to the "Noir 2000" theory, this scene establishes the ages of all the major characters. Monsieur was most definitely 72; I think Madame's about the same. Marien's in her 50s, Peter's in mid-life crisis territory.

I suspect the "swallowing a trout" bit has roots in my Grapes of Wrath "choked on a wine bottle" bit.

Sometimes, I worry about Madame and Monsieur being too maudlin, too Hallmark and stereotypical. Then I remember that they are stereotypes and keep writing.

The Kirika scene took longer, even though I knew what I wanted to have happen. I knew I wanted her to learn of Marien at some point. After the previous scene analysis, I figured she might be a little angst-ridden over the whole "killing someone's dad" thing. I hit upon using Monsieur's war back-story. Trouble struck when I realized "How do you live with yourself after you kill someone" isn't a topic for everyday conversation, and Kirika already sucks at that.

Eventually hit upon the sight gag of Kirika catching the picture (several iterations; one had her doing a diving catch from the door, figured saving his life would be a better case for super-heroism), and then combined the daughter and war threads. Gods, I'm using my own metaphors in the commentary. Somebody shoot me. (Gunshot) Ow.

Kirika's darn lucky she doesn't have super powers. She couldn't hold down a secret identity worth a darn, unless she had one of those special hypno-ties like The Tick.

Kirika's by far my favourite character in this story, so far. Bloody hilarious, yet she gets all the really depressing scenes. She's also really, really annoying. How the fardwarks do I write dialogue when she's practically mute!? Then again, I guess it's better than having her say "Chii" all the time.

Assuming one tea per visit, this would be Kirika's fourth meeting with Monsieur.

"'Patria Non Immemor,'" she read.

Appropriately, Monsieur Trousseau has a French Resistance Medal.

"So many pictures," she breathed.

Considering that maybe three family pictures show up in the whole series, I think her reaction's pretty appropriate.

Sometimes, I worry about Madame and Monsieur being too melodramatic. Then I realize that this whole story is a melodrama, and I keep writing. And Monsieur's an Ent; he should be sappy. HA!

Special huge gigantic thanks to FacelessMinion for bailing me out of the Marien scene. See, I had this brilliant idea to invert the previous scene and have one of the young ones be the counsellor, but the counsellor in question was Miss Twenty-Sessions-With-Dr.-Phil-Just-Won't-Cut-It Yuumura. She's too much of a gloom muffin to spout platitudes, can't tell the truth, and probably wouldn't be comfortable lying. And I'm having her carry the conversation. And she has the emotional repertoire of a brick at this point! And is "fundamentally expressionless" according to the character sheets! And yet she's hijacked this whole storyline! I'll need a Madame/Mireille dance-number just so they can keep up! Damn you Kirika! Argh!

On a completely unrelated note, Kirika looks absolutely priceless in some of those character sheets. "Why am I here? It's 3 AM. I could be in my trailer right now with my three cats and Playstation. And you called me out for height comparisons? Where's my agent?"

"She go on and on about the tests and the war, about how France needed to be strong."

Specifically, this describes France's underground and underwater nuclear tests, and its involvement in the Vietnam War.

Y'know, it's unintentional, but I don't think Kirika will ever get to enjoy a cup of tea with Monsieur. Kinda appropriate, I guess.

"I've read it," she replied, setting down her cup. "It is."

Thus answering the question, "Why the fudge did Mireille have a book about tea recipes?" Yeah, yeah, it's conceivable that she just picked it up somewhere. But she strikes me as more of a casual drinker than a connoisseur of tea. Monsieur, on the other hand…

Chapter 8

Time check: talk about a quantum leap; we've gone from Episode 5 to 11! The first part of the scene takes place about 5 to 6 hours before Mireille and Kirika meet up with that Soldat welcoming committee in that fenced-off park. The last, of course, happens about a minute before Mireille hears a knock on her door and wonders, "Who could that be at this hour?"

The title: that's what it's all about, right? Even the Chloe scene, in a perverse way.

Chapter 8. AKA A Serious Pain in the Ass. The old amateur's curse had struck again: I'd a strong opening, an excellent conclusion, but what to put in the middle? And what to put in the exact middle of the middle, in that key transitional chapter before everything goes to hell? Scads of production notes resulted.

At various points, any and all of the following elements were slated for this chapter:

- Talks on the trip to Russia, Afghanistan/wherever that was, New York, and Italy.

- A session where Kirika angsts over shooting a certain old man in the head.

- A talk about friendship, in the context of Episode 7.

- Details on Peter's mysterious activities.

- A souvenir-giving scene, where Maurice would happen by and say, "Russia, Afghanistan, New York, Italy…my, you do get around, don't you?" To which Mireille replies, "So do you." To which he says, "Point taken."

- The whimsical manhole encounter.

- Key production note: "Take them almost to heaven, then drag them down to hell."

Not a huge fan of the third flashback, since it breaks my personal rule of "show nothing that was originally on-screen." I guess this is from a first-person perspective, so it's a _bit_ different.

"Did. 'Cept after the shake up they had few months ago, they called him back."

Y'know, that bit in Episode 2 when a certain pair killed a certain NSB official with really bad dialogue?

"There could be a wind, or a sudden squall! You never know!"

Of course, it does come pissing down about 3 hours after this scene. Ha ha. Actually, this joke was a real turning point, since I remembered that I should really, really lighten this scene up, and that I had the perfect way to do it: old people squabbling.

He pulled a bag out of his jacket, reached in, and variously tried to feed and concuss the birds with the bread-crumbs it contained.

Somewhere along the line I recalled an old _Royal Canadian Air Farce_ skit featuring an old couple that do exactly what Monsieur is doing.

Note how this is not any of the parks shown in the show.

Y'know, I got to the bit where Mireille's weaselling her way out of the conversation, and I had her check her watch. Then I realized she doesn't wear one. Twerp. Must have an uncanny sense of time, I guess; or maybe she keeps it in that bag of hers along with the gun? Could make for an embarrassing situation, that. "Freeze! (Draws gun, dislodging watch.) Damn, there goes the Timex. (Shoots people, retrieves watch.) Hey, it really _does_ keep on tickin'!"

_(Later that evening…)_

See, traditionally, one would use a bunch of asterisks or angular brackets or curly brackets here to indicate a gap in time and space. Unfortunately, for reasons I have yet to discover, all such characters automagically vanish as soon as this story hits the Internet. Yet no one else I've talked to has this problem. I suspect a gypsy curse.

It was a young woman, whose face passed through joy, surprise, confusion, disappointment, resignation, and subtle intimidation in the space of three seconds.

Author's note to Chloe fans: I'm very, very sorry. But hey, think about it: if she stuck around any longer than this, my main characters would probably end up dead. Granted, everyone bites it in the end, but now is not their time…

Yes, she may be awesome, and maybe she's got a portable GPS unit in her cloak or something, but, well, new surroundings, vague directions mixed in with religious quotations ("Turn left where the wind blows against the grapes of the Holy Father…")…I figured she might screw up just once. That, and I suspect Altena didn't give her any actual directions and she had to look up the address in the Yellow Pages. "Nobunga, Nohoba…dang! No 'Noir'! Hmm, maybe it's under 'Black' or 'Ali Project.' Wait, there was a name, wasn't there? Something about flowers? Bundle? Bushel? Bunch? Bouquet? (snaps fingers) That's it! Mireille Corsage! (checks) Aw, nuts."

Why in heaven's name would they number the apartments 3, 3A, and 3B? Uh…for the same reason that they keep mangling old clichés?

Technically, the Trousseau's apartment is to Chloe's left when Mireille opens the door for her. The Duceppes, I think, are behind her on her right.

Chapter 9

Time check: it's not evident here, but this scene probably occurs at the exact time of day where Mireille passes by a flower-shop in Episode 15.

The title: was originally "Time," until I found a more appropriate place for that loaded term. Was "Out With the Old," for a bit, before I shuffled "Family" over to this spot.

This scene was much easier to write than the previous one since I had a clearer idea of where I wanted to go: ramp up the central Trousseau family conflict, and increase the tension on the truth/lies front with Mireille.

The Golgo 13 jokes were getting old, so I replaced him with _The Talented Mister Ripley_.

"_Oh, that was this fellow I know from Otis."_

They make elevators. Duh.

Thanks for FacelessMinion for suggesting Delft as the place for expensive tea sets.

Sometimes I worry about chapters 8 and 9 dragging out for too long. Then I remember they're named after two of the tale's principle themes, and keep writing.

Originally, there was a second half to this chapter, shown below. This would have taken place in around "The Cold-Blooded Killer Acte I," specifically about one hour after Mireille passes that flower shop. Gosh, it's fun cramming all these scenes into obscure off-camera moments, isn't it?

(Excerpt start)

"It's his birthday?"

"Eighty-one years young today," smiled Madame.

"That's what this is for?" said Kirika in regards to the pile of edibles she was carrying.

"Oh no, no, no. That's for next week. (And what a spot of luck that we'd run into each other; I'd need three trips to haul this all home myself. I hope I didn't interrupt anything…? Just browsing? Wonderful!) We're headed out tonight. There's this little café downtown that we both love called _Julie Julie_. The onion soup there is simply divine. Have you ever tried it before, Miss Bouquet?"

The blonde one stared off into space, seemingly preoccupied. Kirika gave her a nudge. She jumped. "Huh?"

"The soup? Have you tried it?"

"Uh, no. But I know the place. Had lunch there a few days ago, actually."

"Now I remember!" said Madame, snapping her fingers. "Last Tuesday, yes?"

"Uh, yes, yes it was. How did you —"

"I thought it was you that I saw over in the corner," said Madame. "The hair, the top, the nose…'That's Miss Bouquet, all right,' I said to myself." Seeing the question on her neighbour's lips, she added, "They only take reservations in person, you know."

"Oh," she replied, clearly relieved.

"And there was an attractive young man there with you, as I recall," Madame added, smiling.

"Oh," she replied, clearly dismayed.

"I don't mean to pry, my dear," she said, prying, "but I will say that I'm very happy for you. He looks perfect for you."

"He was…_is_…my uncle," said Mireille, softly.

"Oh, my apologies, my dear!" she replied, shaking with laughter. "There I go again, jumping to conclusions. I should have remembered, 'Never assume, because it makes a bass out of you and me' and all that. Never understood the spelling on that one, actually," she added, as an afterthought. "Hmm, I do see the resemblance now, I suppose," she said, attempting to find it.

"It's in the eyes, mostly."

"Really? Runs in the blood, then, does it?"

She clutched her sack of groceries subconsciously. "Yes," she whispered. "The same blood…"

"An uncle," said Madame, collecting her change from the grocer. "I don't think you've ever mentioned him before, Miss Bouquet?"

Kirika glanced over at her roommate. "Ah, Madame?"

"Mm?"

"This thing here —" She paused in mid-sentence at tired wave from her roommate. "Never mind," she finished, stepping back.

"We…we've been out of touch for a long time," said Mireille, scrutinizing the pavement.

Madame nodded slowly, as they left the marketplace for places more private. "It's the same with myself and cousin Reuel. He and I, well, we never really got along. Not since that octopus incident, anyway. I keep trying to mend fences with him; I write every year, but he never writes back."

"No, it's not like that," sighed Mireille. "We were…close. Very close. He wasn't so much an uncle to me, more of a…big brother."

Madame looked interested.

Mireille took a breath. "He was always around the house when I was young. My father, he was always busy at something, and my younger brother was too young to do much of anything, so we hung out together all the time. We'd walk, we'd talk, ride horses over the fields. He, he even read stories to me when I couldn't sleep. He had this huge library in the house; I'd raid it every chance I'd get. And…and there was this lake, just north of Paris where we'd go to every few months or so."

(End excerpt, unfinished)

Eventually, I realized I actually didn't need this scene here. I'd already established that Mireille's relation should be going downhill at this point, but had another scene in mind for later. Why duplicate? I elected to shove these plot points into Chapter 11 to give Mireille something to REALLY angst about.

Chapter 10

Time check: one of the few scenes that really could take place at any time (except that the storyline demanded it occur near the end). Presumably, this occurs in the gap between Episodes 16 & 17.

The title: what was it that Gandalf said of chance encounters?

Rue De l'Echaude is supposedly the actual place Mireille's neighbourhood was modelled after.

The manhole scene was one I envisioned very early in the story. Essentially, I looked at the scenes where Mireille and Kirika were at target practice, and realized some odd things:

1. The tunnels were lit. I'm not familiar with the Parisian sewer system, but it doesn't make much sense to me to illuminate a sewer. This smacked of the old fantasy cliché, whereby every dark place will always have some sort of light, illuminated crystal, or phosphorescent fungi in it on the off chance some hero without excellent night-vision just happens upon the joint. To me, this meant that either they were not in an actual sewer, or they were in one that was no longer in use.

2. We never see Mireille and Kirika fending off rats whilst in the tunnels. (I played with the idea that they'd shot them all, but dropped it.) Nor were they vomiting from the smell of raw sewage (or incinerated by flaming methane pockets). The water, then, must be reasonably clean.

3. A very distinguished, presumably hygienic, Soldat official climbs down into this very tunnel with an expensive cane and designer suit without any real concern that he'd get either soiled. I don't believe most sewers are that clean (I could be wrong, of course).

4. Despite shooting the hell out of the sewer walls probably at least twice a week, they never, ever end up shooting at a bullet-ridden wall. Moreover, Mireille herself was using these same tunnels for an extended period of time before meeting Kirika. Unless the two of them are moving deeper and deeper into the Parisian sewer system (not a good thing for stealth, convenience, or designer clothing), they have to have some system for repairing the damage they cause.

This scene actually helped shape some of Verloc's dialogue in a later chapter, as it made me realize how bad Mireille and Kirika were at covering their tracks. With modern forensics, all those shell casings they leave lying around would make it very easy for a police force to track their progress across the world.

As for "spelunking," that was another 2 AM innovation.

And, of course, weeks after writing this scene, I realized that they weren't actually in a sewer, but a storm drain. And storm drains do, on occasion, have lights (for inspection purposes). Ah phoo.

Chapter 11

Time check: occurs at some point in the one or two days Kirika is off on her journey of self discovery in Episode 19.

The title: Um, duh?

This is where the end of Chapter 9 ended up.

Presumably, Mireille has learned to not step on that one loose floorboard in order to avoid Madame.

I'm not sure if I've got Mireille quite right here, but I figured that, since I've established her and Madame as good friends and all, and since Mireille was a _little_ bit stressed here, there was a good chance she could snap like a twig. Or bend a whole bunch. And if her snapping seems sudden and unexpected, even better.

Sometimes I worry about not adding anything original to the characters of Mireille and Kirika. Then I realize that this would take skill I don't have, and keep writing.

"And Julie Julie doesn't take phone reservations!"

Well, the latter half of the name is most definitely "Julie," and the former ends in "e." And there's a _Beijing Beijing_ where I live. Meh, why not?

It was not the cold, empty dark around her that caused her to tremble, but that which lay within.

You know a series has a hold on you when you write a line like that and realize weeks later that you'd subconsciously referenced the title of the episode this chapter is based on ("The Darkness Within Me").

"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. 'Nothing,' is it?" She sat down next to her. "That's the most complicated thing of all."

Fun fact: nothing, as the origin of everything, must, by definition, be very, very complex.

"One word, one look, and the mask falls away, and you're never prepared for what's beneath it."

You know a series has a hold on you when you write a line like that and realize weeks later that you'd subconsciously referenced a line from "The Cold-Blooded Killer, Acte 1." Although this example isn't as bad as the one mentioned above; mask-imagery turns up most everywhere.

Chapter 12

Time check: here's where things get tricky. Assuming the Soldats obey rules of dramatic necessity and attack at midnight, this scene occurs exactly 38 hours before the big shootout in Episode 20.

The title: I think this one was originally "Trust" before I moved that one elsewhere.

Madame swept off the lid with a flourish, revealing a steaming, bubbling mess of onion, fish, and dismembered squid.

I wanted a French dinner-dish that would look really disgusting, something that goes plop off the spoon real good. Chaudrée was the first thing I could find. The presence of tentacles suggests that Madame is a really, really bad cook.

"Canada."

Originally, I had Peter considering Algiers. I think some latent nationalism might've slipped in here or something. That, and Canada's funny, damn it.

Inspector Vélohr Verloc of the National Police looked up from his paperwork.

This is where Vhailor from _Planescape: Torment_ ended up. Considering that Vhailor was also obsessed with the concept of Justice (more like Vengeance, actually), I thought it was appropriate.

Brannua is where a certain Monument was located, where our dynamic duo gunned down a whole bunch of Knights in the rain. D'Estaing is the corrupt judge. Dux managed a hotel. Feyder was an Uncle. LeGrand ate Daily Bread (and lead).

Originally, after he ripped up the tickets, Monsieur said something like, "No Trousseau has ever run from trouble." Yeah, bad idea. Monsieur's no liar, and his priority is his son's safety. If his son wants to run, he'd hold the door open for him, but only if he knew where he was running to, and what from.

Fun fact: this chapter, possibly the dramatic peak of the whole tale, was written simultaneously with Chapter 8 of _Noir: Contracts_ (where Mireille gets savaged by a club sandwich).

Chapter 13

Time check: occurs exactly 12 hours before the big shootout.

The title: was, at one point, "Last Words." Through a bit of shuffling, I managed to free up "Time" from another chapter for use here. Tick, tick, tick…

An intentionally short chapter, because, well, none of the characters are really in a talkative mood at this point. Originally, this was paired with Chapter 11. I'd planned out this chapter for a very long time, right down to the spent shell and the promise.

Unfortunately, this was also another one of those "Kirika speaks" deals. Worse, the whole scene was essentially a sledgehammer to her face; she comes in depressed, and leaves _really_ depressed. So I needed to change it. Originally, I ended with this bit:

(Excerpt start)

He set something on the china plate with a _clink_.

It was a small 9-mm brass shell casing.

"I do not know what lives you and your friend live," said Monsieur. "I do not know what strength lies in your hands. But mine is spent. I cannot help him. Please. Help my son, if you can."

(End)

However, this would make him an absolutely evil bastard. I mean, the girl's clearly drowning in her own grief, and he throws her this 5000-pound life-preserver? Instead, I had him try to encourage her, and then ask her in absenteeism.

"Y'know, I read this book once. On tea. Fellow from Japan wrote it, actually. Smart one. Knows his stuff. Said tea was about 'the adoration of the beautiful among the sordid facts of everyday existence.' Sounds about right."

Special thanks to FacelessMinion for directions to The Book of Tea, from which Monsieur's quote comes from.

"You'll be just fine," he said. "There is strength in you; I can see it. Whatever it is you are facing, you'll get through it. I know it."

You know a series has a hold on you when you write a line like that and realize weeks later that you'd subconsciously referenced the last words of Kirika's other parental figure, Lady Odette.

He looked up at the old clock, with its curious two headed medallion, and its incessant, insistent time-keeping.

The "two-headed medallion" is supposed to be the official Soldat signet, visible on the ring one of those Illuminati-types wears. I figured that the actual symbol would be like that of the Stonemasons: meaningless to anyone who wasn't a member, and perfectly safe to parade around in public. This also explains why Chloe recognized the clock.

Chapter 14

Time check: come on; you can figure this one out, can't you?

The title: broken glass, broken promises, broken lives, broken bones, broken world views, broken spirits…yeah, I think it works. This was actually the first chapter I named.

It's all been leading to this. As soon as Peter and Monsieur walked on stage, I knew things would end badly. I actually wrote up to Chapter 6 then plotted backwards from the last chapter to figure out exactly what I needed to happen to reach this scene.

By far my favourite chapter as well, since its probably the only true tragi-comedic piece in the whole tale. Obviously, there was no way Madame and Monsieur could come out of this tale in one piece: people such as them have, regrettably, no place in the world of _Noir_.

Originally, I didn't even have the next two chapters; I jumped straight to the end, leaving Monsieur dying in Madame's arms. Then I realized I needed some more closure.

When I sat down to write this scene, I recalled that I'd already made the story somewhat circular with the chapter headings for the prologue and conclusion. I decided to make it explicit by making a grim return to the opening scene.

Yes, the Soldats normally use pistols. But look at the state of the apartment: that's assault rifle work, I think. I'm assuming they swiped the FAMAS from the police armoury or something.

I think it's a lot more entertaining and a great deal more terrifying to describe a fight scene this way; leaves everything up to the imagination.

But for you sticklers out there, I did manage to puzzle out the entire fight sequence. For positions, please refer to the map available on the Project Noir website (go to Gallery, Model Sheets, number 10: it's the last one):

1. Mireille is by the pool table, leaning against right wall, facing Kirika. Kirika leans against the left low wall by the steps to bedroom area. Guns are on the table, left.

2. Peter's clock strikes midnight. Assault team, consisting of Lt. Blanche and two Goons, crashes through bay windows. Goon #1 is on the left, Blanche centre, Goon #2 right.

3. Mireille rolls over the pool table, hoping to reach guns on far side of room. Kirika distracts Goon #1 with a thrown picture frame snatched from the wall. Assault team opens fire. Goon #1 hits mostly ceiling, but his wild burst (and the fact that he's right next to the guns) deters Kirika and Mireille. Blanche and Goon #2 shoot in Mireille's direction. Three lucky shots pass through the low wall, the open bathroom door, and through the wall between the apartments to hit Madame's yarn, Monsieur's cup, and Peter's clock.

4. Kirika retreats towards the kitchen, Mireille towards the bathroom. Madame says "Wha?" Goons shoot at stuff.

6. Goon #2 leaps over wall and pursues Mireille; Blanche does the same for Kirika. Goon #1 tries to shake the stars from his vision.

7. Goon #2 fires a long burst into the bathroom. Numerous rounds break stuff in the Trousseau's apartment. Monsieur is hit.

8. Kirika melees with Blanche, knocking him into some pans. Goon #2 stupidly enters bathroom, where Mireille kicks him into the shower door before flipping back into the bedroom. Goon #2 recovers and follows, but is bloodied and woozy on account of his face being full of glass.

9. Kirika stuns and disarms Blanche. Crack. Arrrgh. Goon #1 gets a burst off, but wounds Blanche. Kirika chucks a cleaver at the Goon. Gurgle. Thud.

10. Upon reaching pool table, Mireille dashes Goon #2's rifle from his hands with a sweep kick and floors him with a boot to the head. She grabs the pool cue from the rack and beats him mercilessly. Whack! Whack! Whack!

11. Interval. Kirika sprints from kitchen to where guns are laid out on pool table. Mireille probably gasps a bit.

12. Blanche gets to his feet and attempts to bull-rush Mireille. Not smart. Bang. Kirika plugs him from behind. He stumbles and crashes face-first into the right wall.

See? It was probably cooler in your head. That's why you read this stuff after you read the story, yes? Note that Blanche is face-first on the floor after this, sparing Madame the knowledge that he was involved.

It's a departure from the standard Noir "bang-bang you're dead" fight sequences, but I wanted something really brutal with all sorts of nasty sound effects. Hence the pool cue. WHACK!

"But…but I thought you said you were a fashion consultant!"

"_I…haven't been completely honest with you, Madame."_

The dialogue between Madame and Mireille is partially inspired by the last few minutes of _Fight Club_, and turned out much, much better than I thought it would. Terror, tears, absurdity! I love it! And "fashion consultant" would explain why Mireille dresses as she does (heels? All the time? And a dress that no witness would have any trouble identifying?).

Chapter 15

Time check: this, too, should be obvious.

The title: bit of a toss-up on the title here. "Fate" was the first choice. Then 3 A.M. struck, and I remembered, "Hey, Pete kinda redeems his scummy self by saving Mireille, and our heroines kinda make up for ruining the lives of the title characters by helping their son come to grips with his life." Why not "Redemption" then? On the other hand, Pete's been so very doomed since the start; his personal symbol's a clock, for gosh sakes. And this whole situation is the result of events largely beyond his control, very doom-like. I went with "Fate" mostly because it matches up nicely with the next chapter.

"_You answered the call, so you wear it!" said Verloc. "That's the way it works!"_

Unless those things have built-in night-vision, I can't think of any other reason why the Soldats would send out their best hitmen wearing something they could barely see through.

Note: theoretically, you can actually see the person I've named Verloc in Episode 20 (time index 16:51). He's on screen for about 1 second before he gets shot like every other male in this show. Peter is presumably behind one of the chimneys.

The exact moment of Peter's death went through several iterations. At one point, Peter actually shot Verloc; I dropped that idea because this would make him a killer like everyone else. He's no killer; he's a natural chicken. On the other hand, if he missed completely, that'd be too funny and ruin the atmosphere. (Also, I realized later, this guy's got at least a little firearms training: he shouldn't be that bad.) Hence the near-miss. At another point, I had either Maurice or Cherise catch up to Peter as he was dying. They would've shot Verloc dead and said some cool dialogue. That sent the wrong message: revenge is good, Peter's avenged, yadda. Originally, Mireille and Kirika did not make an appearance here: Pete shot Verloc off-camera. Eventually, I remembered he should have a plot curve of some kind. He needed a chance to redeem himself after that last talk with his parents. I remembered the promise I'd planned between Kirika and Monsieur, and that nifty moment where that Soldat inexplicably misses Mireille despite having about 30 seconds to aim, and wrote those in.

I do like how this scene turns out, especially with three out of four of its main participants finding redemption without even realizing it: Mireille indirectly helps Peter come to terms with his own life, Kirika fulfils Monsieur's last request (even though she didn't actually hear it), and Peter, for once in his cowardly life, actually does something brave and saves another life (even if he did it out of anger). Heck, even Verloc gets in on the act, what with him cursing the Soldats for sending him after his own neighbours. Arguably, his stupid decision to fire without taking cover could be interpreted as self-sacrificial. This also puts an ironic spin on the chapter title, and relates back to the fate-versus-free-will theme endemic to _Noir_ itself.

Chapter 16

Time check: this is probably a few hours after Kirika stumbles out of that graveyard (depending on how long the surgery took).

The title: I thought it would make a neat counterpoise to "Fate."

I debated whether or not to include the following explicit flashback of what happened to Robert and company. I decided that it was better left up to the imagination. Then I consulted with my editor, who reminded me that it might be pushing things to ask readers to remember a single line of dialogue from about seven chapters back. I stuck it back in. It also helps readers judge how "cowardly" Monsieur and Madame are.

Madame swallowed. "Madame Duceppe came by a few minutes ago. He said they've found him, and that he should be joining us soon."

True to form, Madame lies to protect her husband, again (as we find out next chapter). Although, if you take a black-hearted view of it (as I do), she's technically telling the truth, if, by "joining us," she means "in the morgue." Bwah ha ha! I'm so eeeeeevil.

(Upon reaching last few lines.) Oh, no. Wait. Lump in throat. Guilt trip. Guess I'm not.

Chapter 17

Time check: takes place one week after the end of the series, assuming the events of Episodes 19-26 took about a full week.

The title: kinda explains Chapter 1, now, don't it? Also relates back to the particularly clever choice to call Episode 26 "Birth."

Originally, I left Madame and Monsieur bleeding on the floor of Mireille's apartment. I decided to add the "died in their sleep" bit after an attack of mercy. Besides, it fits them better; they come in quietly, and leave the same way.

A small heart-shaped arrangement of marigolds leaned against it. Beneath that lay a bouquet of zinnias.

Marigolds grief. Presumably left by the family.

Zinnias I mourn your absence. Left by the Duceppes.

"Maurice…Cherise," said Mireille. "Thank you for taking care of things around here."

Having spies for neighbours sure is handy. And a full-scale cover-up is really the only way Mireille could hang around her apartment/crime-scene for two days or so without being mobbed by the police and press.

"Maybe some day," she said. "But not now. It's too soon. But we will, eventually. It's…home…after all."

It would be nice for them to go straight back home after the end of the show, but that would make no practical sense. I suspect Mireille probably maintains several safe-houses; that would explain where all her money goes.

The two spies dipped their heads in acknowledgement, and then set off into the cold.

John le Carré's _The Spy Who Came In from the Cold_ is another thematic inspiration for this tale.

One laid a bouquet of white chrysanthemums upon it, the other, a bushel of hazel.

White chrysanthemums truth.

Hazel reconciliation.

Hence, the two hold their own Truth and Reconciliation meeting, to set things right.

"Mireille!" She turned to her, haunted. "Did we…?"

Kill them? Betray them? Abuse their trust? Insert whatever you like.

Closing Remarks

Why did I put Madame and Monsieur through hell? Noir is a world where there are no truly bad or good people, and for good reason. A truly good person would not survive more than a second in it. In part, I guess this gets back to The Punisher, which shows precisely the disastrous things that happen when these worlds do collide.

Actually, when this was originally a Madame-only story, I'd planned for a slightly happier ending where Mireille would confess everything to her over tea. Too sappy; I'm glad I didn't go with it.

Last chapter and editing completed August 23, 2004.

Bashing the heck out of the story until it worked with the website's text parser completed August 24, 2004 (Argh! Although I'm certain the problem is on my end).

Utterly anal revision sweep since I'm bored, April 7, 2007. Sweet mother of sin, I wrote this THREE YEARS AGO?!

Kevin "Section 8" Ma


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